


Spiral

by crankipli3r



Category: CrankGameplays - Fandom, Video Blogging RPF, markiplier - Fandom
Genre: (probably lol), Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Fluff, Getting Together, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Medical Inaccuracies, Medical Procedures, Surgery, drug mention, in medical contexts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:00:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28169643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crankipli3r/pseuds/crankipli3r
Summary: While he’s running Mark’s fancy Dyson over the living room rug, Ethan almost sucks up a square piece of clear cellophane. He pauses to pick it up, curious, and discovers it’s a wrapper for something.The bold label “K-N95” and a bunch of other medical jargon is printed all over it in black type.Another scene — some faceless EMT hastily unwrapping a mask and putting it over Mark’s mouth while he clutches his stomach and peers up at them, exhausted and hurting — plays out behind Ethan’s eyes like a flashback from an old episode of CSI.He rips the wrapper apart and sucks up the pieces with the vacuum.***Mark goes to the hospital. Ethan doesn’t take it well.
Relationships: Mark Fischbach/Ethan Nestor
Comments: 24
Kudos: 219





	Spiral

**Author's Note:**

> Mark: *is hospitalized* My garbage brain: “i wonder how Ethan’s handling this” 
> 
> Helloooo again!! It has been a few months since my last humble offering (which is still getting so so much love and I’m immensely grateful for all of it, seriously, you guys are incredible), and i am back with another self-indulgent semi-mess for you all! This was intended to be maybe 10K words, at most, but as you can see it ran away from me just a bit. At first i was hesitant about writing/posting this because i didnt want to seem insensitive about Mark’s situation, but given that he seems okay now and my first fic about him involved him getting tortured AND he participated in POOP JOKES about his own hospitalization, i figured this story would be fine.
> 
> A few necessary disclaimers:
> 
> 1) I’ve never been to USC Medical Center or to Los Angeles, so info about the hospital might very well be inaccurate  
> 2) I based my writing about the visitor policy on recent experiences some of my family members have had but i know it’s probably inaccurate as well.  
> 3) Most of the info i got about mark’s condition/treatment is from the videos he posted during his hospital stay, but i also did a little bit of outside research since i altered “canon” a bit  
> 4) THANK A HEALTH CARE WORKER TODAY. Jesus Christ. They are going through so much right now and they deserve the world and more. 
> 
> Alright, i think that’s basically it! I should say this is mostly unedited, since i was too eager to post it after finishing it, so there could very well be a typo or two hiding somewhere. If there is I’m sure I’ll catch it on a future read-through and fix it. 
> 
> Without further ado, enjoy the fic!!

The call comes a little after 10 p.m.

Ethan almost doesn’t hear his phone buzzing — it’s on the arm rest of the couch and he’s on the floor with Spencer, playing tug-of-war with a rope toy while he fails to pay attention to the new _Mandalorian_ episode. When the quiet sound finally registers, he grabs for the phone with a clumsy hand and frowns in mild confusion when he sees who’s calling. Pausing the show, he swipes his thumb across the screen to answer.

“Hey, dude, isn’t it past your bedtime?”

“Very funny.” Mark’s voice sounds weird right away. Ethan doesn’t like it. “Are you super busy for the next few days?”

“No … ” Ethan lets Spencer pull the toy out of his hand at last and sits up straighter, fond smile evaporating. There’s a heavy weight settling in his stomach, a sixth sense telling him something is wrong. Mark never calls this late — hell, they haven’t spoken beyond a few texts since Unus Annus ended. “Why, what’s up?”

There’s a shifting noise, and what Ethan thinks is a choked whimper. “I — I need you to look after Chica. She’s more familiar with you than with Tyler, and Amy’s still camping with Henry up north.”

 _What the fuck?_ “Yeah, sure, I can definitely do that, but why?” Ethan asks, trying his best to keep the mounting fear out of his voice. “Did something happen?”

“Well. Probably.” Another shift, another pained sound that lances through Ethan’s chest like an icicle. “I-I’m on my living room floor waiting for an ambulance to get here.”

Ethan’s on his feet in an instant. _“What?”_

“It’s okay, I’m not hurt or anything,” Mark soothes, but Ethan can’t get over the tension in his voice. “Just can’t really move. But I’m pretty sure I know what’s wrong — remember the, uh, i-intestinal blockage thing I talked about in the pain scale video?”

 _Jesus Christ._ “Yeah, I do,” Ethan replies. He’s pacing back and forth in front of the couch now, his free hand yanking at his own hair as his mind races. “You think it’s happening again? Are you sure?”

“This feels pretty similar. Look, I wouldn’t be going to a hospital in the middle of everything unless I — ”

“No, no, I know that. It’s just … fuck, Mark, I _just_ saw you.”

“I know. It’s really weird — came outta fuckin’ nowhere.”

It’s true. They’d both been part of MatPat’s massive charity livestream for St. Jude earlier today, and while their segments had been a couple hours apart, they’d hung out together at the studio for a little while. They hadn’t seen each other in person since the Unus Annus stream, but as soon as they were in the same room (after their negative rapid COVID tests), it was like no time had passed at all. They’d riffed and talked and joked together on a couch in a random green room, and Ethan had felt himself lighting up embarrassingly bright every time he got Mark to laugh. Mark had looked fine then — more than fine, actually, with his soft gray sweater and his ponytail and the sparkly stud earring he’d decided to put back in —

“ … an? Ethan, you still there?”

“Huh? Yeah, sorry, zoned out.” Ethan gives himself a vigorous mental shake and focuses back on the issue at hand. Stamping down his panic as best he can, he asks, “What else do you need from me? Can I call anyone for you?”

“No, I’ll let everyone else know once I’m in a room. Some of ‘em might even be asleep by now. I just needed to — _ah!”_

An image of Mark writhing on the floor of his living room, alone and in pain, makes the corners of Ethan’s eyes sting. He stops his pacing and grips his phone so tight the plastic case squeaks. “Mark?!”

There’s ragged panting in Ethan’s ear for a few torturous seconds, then a prolonged, exhausted sigh. Mark sounds even more breathless and distressed when he speaks again, and it sends Ethan’s heart plummeting to the soles of his feet: “N-Needed to find someone for Chica. I knew you were my best bet.”

Sometimes Ethan still needs to actually pinch himself to believe this is his real life. Never did he think he’d be the first call Mark would make during a medical emergency. Even if it’s just because he needs a dogsitter, Mark called _Ethan_ before Amy, before Tyler, Bob, Wade — hell, before his own _mother._

So many emotions are bubbling in his chest, but Ethan manages to stay relatively calm as he nods to himself. “I’ll head over there to get her in a few minutes,” he promises, bending down to grab the TV remote from the coffee table. It takes his shaking fingers four tries to press the power button. “Do you want me to pack you a bag with anything? I can bring it to the — ”

“No visitors, remember?”

 _Oh._ Right. Fucking COVID.

“S-So you’re gonna be alone in a hospital room for days, then?” Ethan’s trying his best not to sound hysterical as he darts around the ground floor of the townhouse, gathering his shoes and keys and a hoodie. “That’s … fuck, that’s awful.”

Mark grunts out a laugh. “I’m already a hermit, man. I can handle it. I’m gonna be fine, it just really sucks right now. The timing especially.”

 _You’re telling me._ “This is so crazy,” Ethan mutters into the phone as he shoves his feet into the first pair of Nikes he comes across. They clash with the prototype Soft Boi hoodie he’s pulled on but he doesn’t give a fuck right now. “You’re sure you know what this is?”

“Based on how it feels, I’m about ninety-eight percent sure,” Mark replies. “And if I’m wrong, we’ll — _nngh,_ w-we’ll know in a few hours. God, I can’t wait for the morphine.”

“Neither can I,” Ethan says, soft and honest. All he wants is to wrap his arms around Mark right now, cover him like a salve, sap every speck of pain and fear out of him even if it means taking it on himself. “I … I really hate hearing you like this, Mark.”

A heavy silence passes between them over the phone, punctuated only by Mark’s shallow breaths. He sounds like he’s trying to preserve his oxygen before diving below the surface of the ocean — measured, but slightly frantic. “I’m okay,” he murmurs eventually. “This didn’t kill me the first time, right?”

“Right.” And isn’t that funny, the one waiting on the ambulance offering the reassurances?

Speaking of which, the faint sound of sirens can suddenly be heard from Mark’s end of the line. Ethan holds his own breath to listen as Mark says, “Sounds like they’re almost here. They’ll probably just put me on a stretcher and wheel me out pretty quick — you shouldn’t run into them when you get here.”

“Okay. I’m leaving in a couple minutes — gonna let Kathryn know first, if that’s okay.”

“Yeah, ‘course. She’d probably hear it from Amy later tonight anyway.”

“And Tyler?”

“I’ll text him and everyone else when I’m settled in, like I said. Ben’ll be fuckin’ surprised. My mom’s probably asleep since it’s past m- _mmm …_ p-past midnight by her, but she’ll pick up if I call.”

“Cool.”

The sirens get louder, and Ethan’s pulse gets faster with every wail. Mark must hear his sharp inhale, because he says, “Don’t worry about me, Eth. I’ve been through all this before. It’s g-gonna be fine, alright?”

The traitorous prickle of tears returns, but Ethan blinks them away as fast as they appear. Now is _not_ the time for a panic attack — Mark needs him. “Shouldn’t I be the one telling you that?” he teases lightly, lingering at the bottom of the staircase that leads up to his and Kathryn’s bedrooms.

“Hey, you’re one of my only friends who hasn’t had to d-deal with this shit from me yet. I know it’s scary, especially now — I’m really sorry — ”

“No, don’t be,” Ethan insists, cutting off the strained apology before it can shove him the rest of the way off Breakdown Mountain. “This is so not your fault, in _any_ way, Mark. You can’t control these things.”

“Yeah.” There’s a muffled sound like Mark’s phone is switching hands, then a shaky, resigned sigh. “They’re out front. I’m gonna hang up now, okay?”

“Okay.” Ethan’s stomach twists in a tighter knot. It’s dumb, but this feels like a much bigger goodbye than it is. “Please text me as soon as you know more. I can already tell I’m, like, not gonna sleep tonight, so.”

“I will, but you should try to sleep at least a few hours. Chica and her fish smell can keep you company.”

“True.” Ethan manages a soft giggle, then bites his lip. The hand holding his phone trembles a little as he swallows down the three words he so desperately wants to say — it’s not like he hasn’t said them to Mark before, _on camera_ no less, but. They’d feel different here. Too real, too honest. So he settles for, “Don’t die, asshole.”

Mark chuckles warmly. It sounds almost normal. “I’ll try my best not to,” he says, voice like distant thunder. “Bye, Ethan. Thank you.”

“B-Bye.” And the line goes dead.

Just like that, Ethan is frozen in place, staring blankly at the wall in front of him as he tries to process the last five minutes. Horrible images of an agonized Mark being lifted onto a stretcher and swarmed by EMTs in full PPE flood his mind — he knows Mark is, sadly, familiar with this process, but it’s different now. He’ll probably be given a rapid COVID test as soon as he’s in the ambulance, then hooked up to a bunch of cables and wires as he tries to explain what’s wrong with him. He’ll be talking to a sea of masks and face shields instead of kind, reassuring smiles, and the hands that try to soothe his pain will be covered in sterile latex. Will that change when he tests negative? And fuck, what hospital is he going to? Almost all the beds are taken at the smaller community ones, so is USC Medical Center the only option?

Spencer nudging his calf with a concerned whine helps Ethan surface from the whitewater rapids in his head. He blinks and feels a single tear finally break free from his eyelashes, trailing slowly down his cheek.

 _No._ He swipes it away with the sleeve of his hoodie. _No time for that yet._

Ethan makes quick work of letting Kathryn know what’s going on — thankfully she’s still awake, fiddling with a Premiere file on her desktop in her room. She hugs him tight when she hears the thread of panic in his voice, rubbing his back. “He’ll be fine,” she whispers. “It’s Mark. Every one of his organs has tried to kill him at least once, and he’s made it this far.”

Somehow, Kathryn always knows exactly what Ethan needs to hear. The lump in his throat prevents him from replying, but he thanks her with a smile and a gentle squeeze.

* * *

The drive to Mark’s house has never felt longer than it does tonight. There isn’t even much traffic, but Ethan chalks that up to it being almost 11 p.m. on a Tuesday. He tries to listen to music, but after five minutes of every lyric reminding him of Mark, he turns off the radio and loses himself in the sounds of cars passing by. It’s weird, he thinks, how everyone out there in their own cars under the orange streetlights has no idea who he is or where he’s going. They have no clue how fast his thoughts are moving, how much his heart aches, or why he’s driving about 15 miles over the speed limit. And he knows nothing about them, either — some of them could be in a headspace similar to his right now, sick with worry for their own friend or loved one. There’s a word for this kind of awareness in some language; Ethan knows there is, but he can’t remember it.

 _Mark would know it,_ his unhelpful brain supplies. It only makes him drive faster.

Even with the reduced traffic and the speeding, it still takes about 20 minutes to reach Mark’s subdivision. Ethan holds his breath as he turns onto the right street, half-expecting to see an ambulance still parked in front of Mark’s house, but it’s gone. He notices the windows are lit as he pulls into the driveway — _He left a light on for me_ — and hopes Chica isn’t ripping the couch apart from stress yet.

The house key Mark had given him a couple months into Unus Annus feels clunky in his shaking hands as Ethan unlocks the front door and goes inside. Sure enough, the kitchen light is on, and Ethan sees a couple lamps still glowing dimly in the living room. For a moment, he feels almost like an intruder — the house is big and empty and quiet without Mark’s voice and presence to fill it up.

Chica accosts him before he can even toe his shoes off, bounding over and jumping up on him uncharacteristically. She’s barking and panting and wagging her tail, happy as ever to see him, but Ethan can tell she’s spooked.

“Hey, Beeks,” he says in a subdued version of his Dog Voice, unable to hold back his smile as he ruffles the golden retriever’s fur. The rough petting is a good outlet for his jitters, he finds. “I missed you too. What’s goin’ on, huh? You worried about your dad? So am I.”

His voice breaks on the last word, and Chica looks into his eyes like she understands. He wants to drop to his knees and hug her for a few minutes, but he knows if he lets his guard down that far, he’ll end up bawling in Mark’s foyer for an hour. Steeling himself, he leans down to kiss the top of Chica’s head and gets to work.

Even though Ethan hasn’t been in this house since they filmed the Unus Annus sleepover video, he’s spent so much time here that he still knows where everything is. He gathers up a few of Chica’s favorite toys and piles them up in her bed in the living room, stopping once to toss one for her to chase. Then he makes his way to the pantry where her food and treats are, debating for a moment whether he should bring her bowls too. He decides it’s probably a good idea, since the only spare ones he has at his place are Spencer-sized, so he empties them before washing them quickly in the kitchen sink.

Once he’s tracked down Chica’s leash and harness, Ethan decides he might as well take care of a couple more things while he’s here. His nervous energy is making him feel more productive than he has in weeks, and he rides that temporary high for all its worth — he empties the dishwasher, starts a new load, takes out the trash from the kitchen and bathrooms, and even vacuums the living room because why not? It’s probably hard for Mark to keep the place tidy now that Amy’s moved out.

While he’s running Mark’s fancy Dyson over the living room rug, Ethan almost sucks up a square piece of clear cellophane. He pauses to pick it up, curious, and discovers it’s a wrapper for something.

The bold label “K-N95” and a bunch of other medical jargon is printed all over it in black type.

Another scene — some faceless EMT hastily unwrapping a mask and putting it over Mark’s mouth while he clutches his stomach and peers up at them, exhausted and hurting — plays out behind Ethan’s eyes like a flashback from an old episode of _CSI._

He rips the wrapper apart and sucks up the pieces with the vacuum.

A few minutes later, he’s emptying the Dyson into the kitchen garbage can when his phone buzzes in his back pocket. It’s a text from Mark, along with a selfie that makes Ethan’s blood run cold for a moment — Mark is in a blue hospital gown, lying on his back in a bed with an N95 covering the bottom half of his face. Ethan can’t help but admire the way the older man’s soft, dark hair fans around his head on the white pillow. He’s flashing a thumbs up, and the way his cheeks are bunched under his eyes makes it clear he’s smiling behind the mask, but the sight is still jarring.

 _Getting settled in the ER now,_ the text below the photo reads. _No room yet. I texted Amy, Tyler, Bob, and Wade on the ride over here, so they’re informed. Left a voicemail for my mom but she’ll probably call back soon. I think I’m gonna make a quick insta post to let the fans know._

In the time it takes Ethan to read the message and fully absorb it, another one appears: _How’s Chica?_

Ethan lets out a shuddering exhale and looks up from his phone. Chica’s been following him around for a bit, but she’d distanced herself as soon as he brought out the vacuum. She’s back in the living room now, though, curled up beside her bed since it’s full of toys. It’s a comical image; Ethan flips the lid of the garbage can shut and walks over to snap a quick picture. **_i think she’s still trying to figure out what’s going on_** he replies, hoping the photo makes Mark smile again. **_where did they take you?_**

_There’s my good bub_

_I’m at USC. It’s the only hospital in the county with beds to spare right now. I’ve never seen an ER this busy before_

_They just rapid-tested me and I can’t take the mask off until it comes back negative — they don’t want to contaminate the covid-negative floor_

**_yeah that makes sense_ **

**_have they ordered any big tests or anything yet?_ **

_No, but based on my symptoms and my history they pretty much agree with me about the blockage thing. I’ll probably get a CT and an X-ray in the next few hours to see if I need surgery. Oh and a fucking NG tube which is gonna suck_

_BUT they’re getting me a morphine drip now which I am very excited about_

Mark clearly knows this routine, and it breaks Ethan’s heart a little. Sometimes he forgets how much Mark’s been through in his relatively short life until something ridiculous like this happens. He makes an effort to sound upbeat over text, though: **_so are you about to get all loopy on me then? can’t wait for that lol_**

 _I don’t think it’ll be a super high dose, unfortunately,_ Mark replies after a minute. _Just enough to take the edge off and relax me so they can shove a tube through my sinuses_

Fuck, just the thought of that makes Ethan’s stomach turn. Even though Mark’s the one in the hospital bed, Ethan still wants to smack him for his horrible bedside manner. This has all happened so fast tonight and if Ethan has to think about the graphic details of everything Mark’s about to endure, he’ll actually lose it. **_if that’s supposed to make me feel better about this whole situation it isn’t working_**

There’s a two- or three-minute pause where all Ethan can do to calm himself down is play with Chica’s floppy ears and coo at her. When the reply comes, he feels like an asshole: _Sorry man. I’m kind of trying to make myself feel better about it too. Hasn’t really worked yet._

 ** _i’m sorry too. i’m trying not to completely freak out to be honest_** Worrying his bottom lip between his teeth, Ethan hesitates before typing out an impulsive follow-up and hitting the send arrow: **_i know you’re gonna be okay but fuck mark i just wish i coudl be there with you_**

Ethan stares at the Read receipt for five minutes until Mark replies, _I wish you were here too._

Then, _Doc just came in with meds. I’ll let u know what’s up as I find out more. Give Chica a kiss for me_

**_already done. crossing my fingies for you dude_ **

❤️

Huh. The heart emoji is new. Ethan doesn’t think Mark’s ever sent him one unironically before. It shouldn’t be a big deal — it’s a little blob of red pixels on his phone screen — so why is it making Ethan’s pulse race?

Chica’s wet nose nudging his hand reminds Ethan where he is and why. He blinks a few times, pockets his phone, and shoves every weird emotion twisting through his gut to the margins of his mind.

Well. The emotions aren’t weird. He knows exactly what they are. But they have no place in this situation, or any other, as far as he’s concerned. He’s ignored them for four years now, and he’ll continue to forever. Eventually it won’t feel like stabbing himself in the heart with a white-hot poker.

Right?

 _Ugh, stop it,_ Ethan berates himself as he gets back to his feet. God, this whole thing is messing with him too much and it hasn’t even been two hours.

Before he leaves Mark’s house tidy and barren, there’s one more room Ethan knows he should address: Mark’s office. He’s never been in there for longer than a minute or two without Mark, so walking in like he has permission feels more intrusive than anything else Ethan’s done tonight. Memories of Unus Annus recording days fill Ethan’s mind to bursting as soon as he crosses the threshold, so thick and poignant they make the air in the small room feel dense. How many hours had he and Mark spent here, standing at that computer desk, laughing their asses off at some completely absurd internet artifact? How many hours has Mark spent here, recording and editing and cultivating the seeds of his future platform-shaping projects? In a way, this room feels more private than Mark’s bedroom on the first floor — in fact, Ethan doesn’t doubt that Mark’s spent more than one night passed out on the gray couch in the back corner.

The whole space is buzzing with a certain energy that _feels_ like Mark, in some intangible way, but Ethan is more focused on the ludicrous amounts of fast food wrappers and chip bags littering the otherwise neat desk. He can’t suppress an exasperated sigh as he walks over and starts putting things in the trash bag he’d brought up from the kitchen. Mark’s Sennheiser headphones are placed right beside his RGB keyboard instead of on their stand, like he’d only taken them off to leave the room for a minute. The three computer monitors are all showing a screensaver; when Ethan accidentally jostles the mouse, they wake up, revealing a few Chrome windows and an open Premiere file. It looks like a first draft edit from Lixian, and it’s paused about a third of the way through.

_He was trying to distract himself._

The stubborn idiot was probably _working_ while he waited for his pain to abate, and when it didn’t, he’d gotten up to walk a lap around the house or something. Then it had flared, he’d collapsed in the living room, and now he’s at the hospital.

And Ethan’s cleaning his office and trying not to curl up under his desk in a panic.

Clearing his throat to get rid of the fresh lump of tears forming there, Ethan quickly saves the video file and puts Mark’s computer to sleep. He’s already mentally writing the lecture about self-care he plans on passionately delivering to Mark as soon as the older man is fixed and home.

Once he’s made one more trip outside to the garbage cans beside the garage, Ethan thinks he’s done all he can. The house isn’t spotless, but it’s in better shape than it was when he got here. Ethan only wishes he could say the same for his mental state — maybe it isn’t _worse,_ but it certainly hasn’t improved, despite the brief update from Mark. Thinking about everything Mark’s about to go through alone in the next day or two is more overwhelming than Ethan expected.

Fingers twitching restlessly, Ethan stares at the pile of toys and other dog paraphernalia piled high on Chica’s bed. An idea forms, and he decides to go with it for the sake of his own sanity if nothing else.

The closet in the spare room where they’d filmed the completely random “This Video Will Never Make Sense” Unus Annus video had had a bunch of suitcases and travel bags in it. Ethan bounds up the stairs and into the room, stepping over piles of memories as he searches for something that’ll suit his purposes. A black duffel bag with an old luggage claim tag from LAX still taped to one of its handles is crammed in the corner of the closet — _Looks big enough,_ Ethan thinks before pulling it free.

Even though Mark most likely won’t be allowed visitors, there’s still a small chance he will be. And Ethan decides to pack him a bag.

He explores the house for about ten minutes and gathers a soft black Cloak cloak, a 10-foot charging cable and wall brick for Mark’s phone in case he doesn’t have one with him, a _Warhammer_ novel, a Korean phrasebook, the Switch that’s been abandoned by Mark’s TV for months now, and a pillow from Mark’s bed. It isn’t much, and it might be pointless, but Ethan feels a little better once it’s done. This is a normal thing to do for a hospitalized friend, and in the midst of everything, a small dose of normal is comforting. Hopefully it’ll get the chance to comfort Mark, too.

Finally, Ethan tells himself he’s done all he can for the night. Mark hasn’t texted him anything else yet; Ethan figures the old mantra “no news is good news” will be running through his head a lot in the coming days. He brings the duffel bag out to his Tesla first, then Chica’s things, then Chica herself. She’s never ridden in his car, but it’s the same as Mark’s in every way but color.

“Ready for a car ride, Beeps?” Ethan chirps as the pup gets settled in the back seat. She curls up happily on Spencer’s blanket, which Ethan knows he won’t be happy about next time he rides in the car. “Ooh, your pal Spencer won’t like that! You ready to see Spencer again? I think he’s missed you, yes he has!”

* * *

In a strange way, having Chica around is almost like having Mark around. She and Mark are very similar creatures — they’re big and warm, they sometimes don’t smell great, they love the spotlight, and they’re delightfully weird. They’re also both good at telling when someone around them is feeling down, and Chica proves this by climbing off the back seat in the middle of the drive to rest her head on the center console, right beside Ethan’s elbow. He jumps in surprise when he feels her nudge his arm, but softens as soon as he sees the understanding look in her big brown eyes. _Just like Mark there, too._ He keeps his right hand on her head until he pulls into his garage a little after midnight.

Kathryn is still awake, and she helps him unload the car while he fills her in on the little information he knows. They get Chica’s bed and feeding bowls set up in a corner of the living room — Spencer mostly sleeps in his crate in Ethan’s room upstairs, so they don’t have to worry about territorial fighting. Marz the cat isn’t very pleased to have a big stinky golden stomping around, but she quickly finds solace in Kathryn’s room and Ethan figures that’s where she’ll stay for the duration of Chica’s visit. Spencer is just confused — he greets Chica with a curious head tilt and a shy wag of his tail, and she immediately starts chasing him around the ground floor. It’s entertaining and manages to make Ethan laugh through his anxiety, but he breaks them up after a minute, not wanting to deal with a noise complaint from the neighbors on top of everything else.

“I’m gonna head up to bed,” Kathryn says once Chica’s been fed. Ethan’s snuggling with the dog on the couch now, much to a jealous Spencer’s chagrin. “You should try to get some sleep, too.”

“Mmm.” Ethan rubs his thumbs under Chica’s eyes like he’s seen Mark do countless times. She melts a little further into his lap. “I dunno if I can yet. I wanna be awake in case something else happens. He said he’d tell me.”

Kathryn sighs, a sound Ethan’s heard too many times to count. “Ethan, you’ve been awake since eight this morning. You’ll be no help to Mark if you’re dead on your feet.”

“‘M not on my feet. I’m on the couch.” It’s a weak retort, but it’s all Ethan has left in him.

Because she’s practically his sister after all these years living together, Kathryn can read Ethan like a book. She walks over to the couch and sits down beside him, her presence calm and maternal as she wraps an arm around his shoulders. He tips against her immediately, still staring at Chica draped over his crossed legs, and clenches his jaw against the sudden tide of emotion rising in his chest.

“I’m scared,” he whispers, biting the words out between his teeth. “And angry. The fucking world is falling apart and people are d-dying alone in hospital beds every day and he’s in pain and I _can’t go see him.”_

It’s the closest he can get to properly articulating the tumult that’s been brewing in his head since Mark called him two hours ago. Kathryn understands him, though — she hums softly and rubs his shoulder, reaching out to pet Chica with her other hand. “I know. Hopefully he doesn’t have to stay there more than a day or two. They’ll fix what needs to be fixed and send him home, and we’ll be there waiting for him.”

Ethan’s vision is blurry from exhaustion and unshed tears, and he knows he must look like a mess. He sniffles once and clears his throat, flipping Chica’s ears back and forth between his fingers. Kathryn’s one of his best friends; he knows she’d understand if he told her the real reason this is fucking him up so badly. She wouldn’t judge him if he confessed to her how honored he was to be the first person Mark called, or how badly he wishes he could hold Mark’s hand while they shove that awful tube down his throat. Hell, maybe she wouldn’t even bat an eye if he told her he’d give anything to kiss Mark’s pain and fear and loneliness away, hold him in that hospital bed until he falls asleep, wake him up with soft words and touches.

But he just can’t bring himself to say any of it out loud. Hell, he can barely admit to himself that he feels those things at all.

“You’re thinking too hard,” Kathryn chides gently, snapping him out of his gloom for a moment. “I can hear the gears clanking in your head. If you’re not gonna sleep, at least try to distract yourself with something, okay? Don’t just stare at a wall and catastrophize all night.”

Ethan nods silently against her shoulder, voice caught in his throat. A classic Chica _harrumph_ startles a laugh out of him a moment later. “Good girl, Chica,” he murmurs, patting her head lovingly.

“Does having Chica here help?” Kathryn asks. She sounds genuinely curious.

“Yeah.” Ethan brings one hand up to swipe at his damp eyes and pats Chica’s back with the other. “Y-Yeah, it does.”

“Good.”

With one more comforting squeeze, Kathryn pulls away and stands up from the couch. Ethan feels her eyes on him as he continues to stare at Chica, afraid his emotions will be too obvious on his face if he looks up. “You can go to bed,” he mutters. “Don’t worry about me.”

“Can’t help it.” Kathryn lingers there by the couch for another few seconds, then sighs and heads towards the staircase. “If something big happens, you can wake me up if you need to,” she tosses over her shoulder.

“I will,” Ethan says, finally lifting his head to watch her climb the stairs. “‘Night, Kat.”

“‘Night, Eth.”

Once he hears his roommate’s bedroom door close, Ethan huffs out an unsteady breath and pulls Chica closer. He buries his face in her neck and squeezes his eyes shut, trembling under the weight of every unspoken feeling he’d had to hold back tonight and the last four years. His head and heart won’t stop arguing with each other while they try to tell him what’s best, but all it does is give him a stomachache.

He digs his fingers into Chica’s soft fur and holds on for dear life. “I love you,” he whispers.

Chica wags her tail in response — she thinks the words are for her. Ethan lets her believe it for now.

The next few hours are spent finishing the new _Mandalorian_ episode and mindlessly scrolling through Netflix and Disney+ until Ethan’s eyes refuse to stay open any longer. His brain is still fully awake — he’d gone to the kitchen around 1:30 to make himself a cup of coffee — and he does his best to not give into his body’s demands for sleep. Mark hasn’t texted him any more updates yet, so he has to stay alert until that happens. _He needs you,_ Ethan tells himself, repeating the phrase like a prayer until it’s the only thought in his head.

Those words and the theme music of _The Queen’s Gambit_ are the last thing Ethan’s aware of before he finally loses consciousness, stretched out on his couch with Chica against his side.

* * *

It’s probably the worst night of sleep Ethan’s ever had.

He wakes up at least once every hour between 2 and 6 a.m. — the first time is from Chica jumping down off the couch and jostling him, but the others are pure stress reactions. His only thoughts are of Mark, but he’s too dazed in these brief interludes to think to check his phone lying face-down on the coffee table.

The thing that wakes Ethan up for good is a short but horrific nightmare. He’d dreamt he was in a crowded hospital hallway, with machines beeping in rooms and nurses and doctors bustling around him like he wasn’t even there. The noise had been cacophonous, but one sound had risen above the others: Mark’s voice, screaming and crying out for Ethan somewhere in the distance. Ethan had tried his hardest to push through the throng, desperate to get to his best friend, but the hospital staff had turned on him like the projections from _Inception._

 _“Please,”_ he’d begged, _“let me through, I have to find my friend! Please!”_

 _“You can’t be in here,”_ the masked personnel had declared in unison as they shoved him backwards with unapologetic hands. Their hollow voices had echoed off the white walls, a death knell unlike anything Ethan’s heard before. _“You have to leave now.”_

_“No! Let me go, I need to get to him!”_

_“Ethan! H-Help me! Where are you?!”_

_“You’re not allowed in here.”_

_“Let me FUCKING go, he needs me, I love — ”_

_“ETHAN!”_

That final hoarse cry had jolted Ethan out of the dream instantly. He’s sitting up on the couch now, panting and shivering and covered in a cold sweat with his heart lodged in his throat. Spencer is perched by the armrest, looking up at him worriedly, but Chica appears to be fast asleep in her bed across the room.

Swallowing hard, Ethan pets Spencer with a shaking hand and tries to catch his breath. “H-Hey, Spence.” He’d fallen asleep in his contacts, but even though they’re cloudy and dry they help him read the digital clock on the shelf below the TV: 6:24 a.m. _God._ Ethan can’t remember the last time he’d been awake this early. He doesn’t feel like he’s slept at all, really.

While his pulse is still evening out, he remembers his phone. A massive yawn is cut off as Ethan’s hand darts out to grab it — there’s four texts from Mark, none of them very long but still detailed enough ease Ethan’s stress somewhat.

2:21 a.m.: _Got the CT and an X-ray. They don’t think I’ll need surgery but they’ll know for sure once they read the scans and do some contrasts._

3:09 a.m.: _Took them four tries to get the NG tube in but it’s in. I forgot how much it sucks. Morphine is nice though_

4:13 a.m.: _I hope your silence means you’re sleeping — you need it._

5:46 a.m.: _Just uploaded a quick update video to the channel. I think I need to make a hospital vlogs playlist at this point lol. Gonna try to get some sleep now. Hope you got some yourself_

Ethan feels awful for missing these messages, but he can’t help the fond smile that tugs at his lips as he reads the last one. As mildly irritated as he is that Mark feels obligated to upload from a fucking hospital bed, his selfless concern for Ethan melts that irritation away. Not wanting to wake Mark up in case he did manage to fall asleep, he leaves the texts unanswered and opens the YouTube app.

The first thing that loads is Mark’s video, and the thumbnail dissolves Ethan’s smile like acid.

It’s less than two minutes long, but Ethan barely comprehends anything Mark says. He’s too hyperfocused on the plastic tube in Mark’s nose, the white tape holding it in place, his half-open eyes, the haggard look on his face even as he tries to smile for the camera. His voice is hoarse and he pauses between sentences to take deep breaths through his mouth, probably because his nose is blocked off. The fact that his shoulder-length hair still looks soft and perfect and he’s still wearing that fucking earring brings the whole surreal picture together, and it makes Ethan feel like he’s been punched in the chest.

When the video ends, Ethan’s phone falls from his nerveless fingers to his lap. The rational part of his brain knows this is a positive development — Mark likely doesn’t need surgery, and even though he’d been obviously uncomfortable in that video he’d at least felt well enough to record it — but he can’t get over the sight of someone he cares about in that state. He’s never had to deal with this before — no one else in his family or circle of friends has ever been as accident-prone or susceptible to random illness as Mark. Truthfully, his own inability to cope with this makes Ethan feel a little pathetic.

He doesn’t realize he’s hyperventilating with his head in his hands until a paw appears on his knee. Chica’s awake, and she’s assuming her frequent role as Ethan’s support animal. He looks up and meets her eyes, resting a hand on her head automatically. “Morning, Cheeks,” he mumbles, sparing a few pets for Spencer beside her before the smaller dog can start sulking.

Something occurs to him then: Chica’s used to morning walks around this time. That’s something tangible Ethan can do to be useful and take his mind off things. It’d give him an excuse to get some light exercise in, too.

Okay. He can do this. Even if he can’t be with Mark right now or handle his own emotions, he can at least treat this dog like the perfect princess she is.

It’s like he’s watching himself from a distance as he feeds the dogs and tops of Marzipan’s bowl in case she risks a trip downstairs for a snack. He doesn’t feel much like eating himself, so he decides to go right to the bathroom for a quick shower. The sight that greets him in the mirror is surprising, to say the least — his eyes are puffy and bloodshot and he could really use a shave, but he just doesn’t have the energy to. He barely has the energy to shampoo his rat’s nest of hair, but he does it, deliberately keeping his mind blank as he loses himself under the hot spray of water for a few minutes.

Ethan grabs onto the brief burst of energy from the shower with both hands and uses it to maintain a positive façade as he gets Chica and Spencer in their harnesses. “Ready for a walk, guys? Chica, I know you haven’t been around here much, but I promise it isn’t scary! It’ll be an adventure!”

It’s not really an adventure, but it isn’t horrible. Ethan’s grateful for his mask and the cowl-style hood on his new yellow hoodie as he walks the route he usually takes with Spencer — not only does it keep his face warm in the early-morning chill, but it reduces the chances of him being recognized. Not that he thinks he’s _likely_ to run into a fan before 7:30 in the morning on a Thursday in a half-mile radius of his house, but the chances are never zero. Chica is perfectly well-behaved, unsurprisingly, trotting happily alongside Spencer and taking in the sights with a wagging tail and a dopey dog-grin on her face.

Ethan texts Kathryn the link to Mark’s video as they walk past the small dog park Ethan often takes Spencer to. Seeing the thumbnail again twists his empty stomach into a knot, so he shoves his phone back in his jeans pocket the instant the message is sent. Part of him wishes he could remember Mark’s 2015 hospital stay — he’d been watching Mark’s stuff for about three years by that point, so he has no clue how that event flew under his radar — if only to have a precedent for a situation like this. He almost wants to look up the videos Mark posted during that time.

But it’s a nice morning, despite everything. Birds are chirping; sunlight is singing the edges of the palm fronds towering over the streets; the dogs are healthy and enjoying themselves. Ethan wants to cling to some semblance of positivity, and digging back into Mark’s channel for a five-year-old video of him in a different hospital bed would shatter the already-tenuous hold Ethan still has on his sanity.

The walk isn’t super long — maybe half an hour — but it’s enough to awaken a different emotion in Ethan: homesickness. It’s December 3, and all he needs to feel comfortably warm outside is an average hoodie and a mask. Christmas is in 22 days and there’s no snow, no icicles, no rusted pickup trucks skulking around with cheap plows strapped to their grilles. Ethan loves California, but he misses seasons, especially around Christmas. The realization that COVID is going to prevent him from visiting Maine for the holiday this year hits him out of nowhere, and he nearly trips over his own feet. If Kathryn visits her family, he’ll be spending Christmas alone.

The thought would’ve stopped him in his tracks and brought tears to his eyes yesterday. But today, with his best friend in the hospital and everything else going on in his head, it just adds itself to the mental Anxiety Pile Ethan’s steadily curating. It doesn’t even change his mood — if anything, the overload is finally enough to push him into numbness.

One of the houses on the end of Ethan’s block has a tall bamboo plant in its front yard. He’s passed it hundreds of times before on his walks with Spencer without giving it a second glance, but today it reminds him of something important. This could be his brain trying to look for more things to distract him and make him useful, but Ethan suddenly remembers all Mark’s plants. A few left his care when Amy moved out, but he still has that aloe plant with the slit in one of its leaves, as well as a few succulents, a fern, and another cactus-type thing Ethan still can’t pronounce the name of. _I should water his plants,_ he thinks, and a flare of determination bursts through the shield of apathy around his heart.

Momentarily uplifted by this new goal, Ethan encourages the dogs to run the last half-block to his house so he can leave for Mark’s. He throws out the used poop bags, scrawls a quick note for Kathryn so she doesn’t think he ran away when she wakes up, and herds Chica and Spencer into his car in the span of five minutes.

Before he sets off, he snaps a quick photo of the pups in the back seat of the Tesla and sends it to Mark. **_she might look like she’s having fun, but she misses you_** he says, hoping there’s a response soon — Mark’s last message was two hours ago now.

That response comes right as Ethan’s crossing the threshold of Mark’s house. He lets the dogs run past him towards the living room and whips out his phone, chewing on his bottom lip nervously.

_Tell her I miss her too. I’m very glad she’s got you to look after her, though. Where are you taking them?_

No updates right away. Is that good? Ethan wants to ask but figures Mark will tell him anything relevant soon enough. **_just on a quick trip back to your house. i walked them this morning since i was awake super early and remembered you have plants, so i’m here to nourish them. you’re welcome lol_**

_Oh my god thank you! I completely forgot about that. Yeah there’s a watering can on the back patio you can use, but a regular cup or glass from the cabinet is fine too_

That reminds Ethan of the load of dishes he’d done last night, and he decides to unload the dishwasher before flexing his green thumb. He can’t suppress a small smile at Mark’s genuine gratitude. **_do you think they’ll be able to tell it isn’t you watering them? i don’t want a harem of angry plants coming after me_**

_Just don’t cut any of them with a knife again and I think you’ll be safe from their leafy wrath_

**_noted haha_ **

As much as Ethan loves this easy, borderline normal conversation, he needs to know how Mark’s doing. Before setting down his phone to wash his hands in the kitchen sink, he texts, **_any big developments so far from the scans last night? i hope you got at least a couple hours of sleep._**

Ethan manages to put away the entire top rack of the dishwasher and all the silverware before Mark’s reply comes through. When he reads it, he almost drops the plate he’s holding onto the tile floor.

_I slept about an hour before they took me down for the contrast scan. Based on the x-ray and CT I’ve already had, it’s starting to look like I might need surgery after all._

Ethan hasn’t eaten yet today, but he feels like he’s about to vomit. Heart in his throat, he reads the message three times just to make sure his dyslexia isn’t fucking with him.

**_are you serious? you said in your video you didn’t think you’d need it this time_ **

_That was what the doctor told me at the time after he felt my stomach and read the initial tests/scans. Apparently the scar tissue is causing a bigger problem than they first thought and if they don’t operate, I’ll likely be back in the hospital in a couple weeks with a new blockage._

_So basically it’s either let the NG tube do its thing for the rest of today, go home tomorrow on a liquid diet, and end up back here around Christmas for surgery, or just get surgery out of the way tomorrow morning so I can go at least another few years without this happening._

The urge to call Mark is so strong Ethan almost does it without thinking, but he holds back. If he gets Mark on the phone now and hears that deep, hoarse voice talking directly to him, he’ll end up a weeping mess. So Ethan tries to take deep, steady breaths as he falls back against Mark’s kitchen cabinets and slides to the floor, phone cradled in his palms like a wounded bird.

This is … a lot. Surgery would put Mark out of commission for at least another week, which Ethan knows would drive him absolutely insane. Besides that, the thought of Mark having to go under and wake up from surgery — even just a laparoscopic one, which this one would probably be — all alone is heartbreaking. Surely Mark’s been through enough in his life to be able to avoid going under the knife in the midst of a pandemic?

Ethan realizes he’s been staring at his dark phone screen for almost ten minutes when another text comes through: _I’m sorry, I don’t want to worry you or anyone else more than I already have. I’m trying to keep my own head level as it is and this just keeps getting worse_

Mark has absolutely nothing to apologize for, and the indignant anger that flares briefly in Ethan’s chest is enough to spur him to finally respond: **_no dude, i’m sorry you have to go through this. i told you last night this isn’t your fault at all so don’t apologize okay? yeah this is scary and it sucks and i’d give anything to make it go away but if surgery is the best way to fix this, i think it’s worth it_**

_I think it’s worth it too. I just wish it could be permanent. The problem with removing scar tissue surgically is the surgery to remove it only creates more, so it’s like a never-ending cycle. They told me the first time this happened that I’d probably deal with it for the rest of my life, and that’s why._

**_i;m sorry mark. i really really wish i could be there with you_ **

_I know_

Ethan stares at the pixels forming those two words until unshed tears blur them. Blinking rapidly, he tries to think of something to say in response that wouldn’t be construed as an outright love confession. But another text derails those thoughts.

_Fuck it. I’m gonna ask the nurses about the visitor policy again. It varies a lot I guess, and now that I’m in a permanent room on a covid-free floor they might make an allowance._

Leave it to Mark to try and charisma his way around every rule he can. Ethan would laugh if he wasn’t so close to crying. Still, the first spark of hope he’s felt since before this ordeal began warms his pounding heart a little. **_an allowance for me? what about amy?_** Despite having been broken up for a few months, Mark and Amy are still exceptionally good friends and Ethan would hate to steal an opportunity like this from her.

 _She won’t be back in town until late tonight,_ Mark replies a minute later. _And Tyler shouldn’t come anywhere near this place to be safe. What other close friends do I have in LA?_

Ah. So Ethan’s the default. Mark just wants to see a familiar face, and Ethan’s his only realistic option. Ethan can’t blame him, really, but the familiar pang of “I’m-not-actually-special” still hurts.

Mark must be able to read his mind from miles away, because he sends a follow-up text almost immediately: _Didn’t word that right. Honestly, even if all my friends lived here, I’d still want to see you first. You’re my best friend_

It’s one thing to be Mark’s first call during a medical emergency. It’s entirely different to see the evidence of how much he cares plainly spelled out on a phone screen. Ethan’s afraid his heart is about to burst out of his chest from the rush of _MarkMarkMark_ that fills it all of a sudden. The last person Mark had deliberately called his best friend was Amy.

The spark of hope turns into a weak flame.

With shaking fingers, Ethan types out as platonic a reply as he can manage: **_and you’re mine. which is why this whole thing is fucking me up so bad. if you can pull a few strings somehow and make sure it’s 100% safe, i’d be there in a second_**

_I’ll see what I can do. No guarantees obviously, but if it’s possible I’ll let you know._

**_would you tell anyone else? i don’t want anyone pissed at either of us if i’m the only person that can come see you_ **

_Like I said, Tyler is my only other close friend nearby and it would be too risky for him to be here. And Amy would definitely understand even if she was nearby_

That’s … an unusual statement. Why is Mark so certain Amy wouldn’t mind Ethan visiting him instead of her? Ethan wants to ask for clarification, but he sees Mark’s still typing.

_I can barely keep my eyes open right now so I’m gonna text a few more people, tweet a quick update, and then nap for awhile if I can. I’ll let you know if I learn anything new about anything. Give Chica more kisses and pets for me._

**_i will. i’ll let your plants know you miss them too_ **

_Oh yes, that’s very important thank you_

**_anything for you Papa Bear_ **

_No amount of morphine will ever make me like that nickname_

**_my bad my bad. d*ddy bear then_ **

_The asterisk in no way makes that even slightly tolerable you menace_

_Plus laughing hurts so stop it_

😈👨🐻

_Owieee_

The image of Mark laughing, even in a hospital bed with tubes and wires sticking out of him, gives Ethan the strength to stand up off the kitchen floor. After one last message telling Mark to get some rest, Ethan finishes putting the dishes away and heads to the patio to find the watering can.

The artsy pictures he takes of Mark’s fern in the morning sun aren’t that great, but he saves them anyway. Mark will appreciate them when he wakes up.

* * *

Ethan goes straight downstairs to his recording space as soon as he gets home from Mark’s, needing to create to keep his mind occupied until he hears from his friend again. He soon finds, however, that he hasn’t been this tired while recording videos since before he moved to L.A. He yawns and misspeaks and has to tell Justin to “edit that part out, holy shit, I’m sorry” more than once when his train of thought is completely derailed. This is the best thing he can do to distract himself, though, so he presses on.

He’s never understood why people go back to school or work so soon after something traumatic happens. Now he thinks he kind of gets it.

It’s cathartic to fall into his on-camera persona, wind himself up, and let himself go even if he isn’t as chipper and giggly as usual. The familiarity is comforting, like a security blanket he didn’t realize he had. Kathryn tells him she’s glad he’s at least trying and makes him some scones when he confesses he hasn’t eaten yet today — she even brings a couple downstairs so he can nibble as he works. He thanks her with a wobbly smile and a sideways hug before chowing down. They’re delicious, of course.

Before he knows it, he’s been recording for about three hours. The dogs are hanging out in the room with him, mostly sleeping but occasionally trotting over to check on him. He likes being able to keep an eye on Chica specifically — as _Mark’s_ dog, she’s probably the most loved animal on the face of the earth and Ethan’s never been left in charge of her for this long before. Thankfully she isn’t too high-maintenance and only barks when the front door opens, much like Spencer. She does, however, shed about twice as much.

“If only I could sneak you into the hospital to see your dad,” Ethan tells her when she walks up to him for the third time in an hour. He pauses his recording, not really caring about the interruption of the random “Among Us Memes” video he’d thought of ten minutes ago, to lavish some affection on the dog. She’s content, yes, but Ethan can tell she misses Mark. It’s all in those big brown eyes of hers.

“I miss him, too,” Ethan whispers, leaning down and kissing the top of her head. “But he’ll be home soon.”

Chica’s tail wags like she understands, and Ethan lets himself believe she does.

He’s so invested in petting and cooing at Chica that he almost doesn’t hear his phone buzz on his desk next to his multicolored keyboard.

 _They’ll let you visit me,_ the text reads. Ethan’s heart skips at least three beats.

 ** _really????_** Fuck, his hands are shaking again. He wants to scream and he isn’t sure why. **_oh my god when_**

_In a few hours, once a couple more patients have been discharged and there’s a shift change. You’ll get a temp check and a rapid test when you get here and once it comes back negative, they’ll bring you up to my room. But only for 15 minutes._

It’s not enough and so much more than Ethan hoped for at the same time. “Holy shit,” he breathes as he types. **_whatever i need to do i’ll do it. will they let me in your room or will i have to talk to you through plexiglass or smth_**

_You’ll be allowed in my room, but you can’t remove your mask at any point. If you’ve got an N95 I’d say bring that, otherwise any heavier-duty one than the gray one you usually wear might make them like you more. Plus it’ll keep you safer._

**_ive got a thicker black one i can wear_ **

**_fuck mark how did you convince them??_ **

_Have you met me? Even with a tube up my nose I can be charming y’know_

Mark’s right. Ethan rolls his eyes even as he breathes out a relieved sigh. This is the best news he’s gotten about anything in days, and the effect it’s having on his brain isn’t unlike a good bong rip. Exhibit A: Him making that comparison.

But he has to ask Mark one more time.

**_and you’re sure you want it to be me? amy could stop by on her way home tonight_ **

_I’ve been texting her all day just like I have with you and she told me she wants it to be you too. She’s been traveling so they probably wouldn’t allow her up here anyway._

That’s a good point. Ethan ignores the strange fluttering in his chest when he reads that Amy _wants_ him to visit Mark and replies, **_okay okay gotcha. what’s the earliest they’d let me in? i’ve just been recording random shit for a few hours and idk if i’ll even use all of it_**

_I think they told me 5:30 would be the earliest, but I can double check._

It’s almost 1 p.m. now. That’s not too terribly long of a wait, Ethan supposes. **_okay. any time would work fine_**

_Okay_

_I can’t wait to see you_

A shuddering exhale accompanies the wave of intense longing that washes over Ethan at that. He doesn’t even care if Mark’s only saying that to make him feel better, or if he’d say the same thing to anyone else. It’s directed at Ethan for now, and he’ll take it.

**_i can’t wait either_ **

_I don’t think you’ll be able to hug me but it’ll be enough to just see you. Even if half your face is covered your eyes won’t be_

Ethan’s thumbs freeze over his phone screen, and he stares down at the message in bewilderment. Is this … Is Mark flirting? Does this mean something? Or does he talk about all his friends’ eyes casually?

The next text explains some of it: _I am sorry — they upped my morphine dose and I’m still getting used to it so my filter might not be working properly yet_

Right. Drugs. Mark’s high on painkillers right now, enough to cloud his judgment at least a little. The blush in Ethan’s cheeks fades slightly, but his tiny grin doesn’t. **_it’s okay lol. but for the record i’m excited to see your eyes in person again too_**

_Oh dear. Well one of them is puffy and weepy because of the tube fuckin pressing on my sinuses so I hope you’re into that_

**_that’s literally my kink so i think we’re good_ **

_You’re a twisted little man_

_Nurse just walked in. Confirmed 5:30 is the earliest they can let you in_

**_i’ll be there around 6 then just to be safe_ **

_Sounds good. I’m gonna take another nap while this medicine does things_

**_okay. sweet dreams market pliers_ **

_Knowing you’ll be here soon after I wake up will give me very sweet dreams I think._

Ethan can’t think of anything else to say after that. He rereads the ridiculous conversation a dozen times, wishing he knew what it all meant. Pieces are falling into place in his head — Mark calling him his best friend, Amy wanting Ethan to be the one to visit Mark, the eyes thing — but he refuses to let himself fall further into hope than he already has. Mark’s on _morphine,_ for fuck’s sake. He doesn’t know what he’s saying.

The important thing is Ethan’s going to be able to see him in about five hours. It’ll only be for 15 minutes, and he might not be able to get too close, but goddammit it still counts. Adjusting from seeing Mark almost every day for a year to seeing him once in the past three weeks has been tougher than Ethan anticipated; he hopes they’ll be able to hang out normally once Mark’s back home recovering.

For now, though, Ethan will take whatever he can get.

Recording forgotten for now, Ethan bounds upstairs with Chica and Spencer on his heels and finds Kathryn on the couch in the living room. She looks up from her laptop in alarm and removes her headphones, concern in her eyes. “What, what’s wrong?”

“They’re letting me visit him,” Ethan says, still not fully believing it.

“Really?!” Kathryn stands up and catches Ethan in her arms as he collides with her, hugging him tight. “Oh my god, who did Mark have to kill?”

Ethan chokes out a half-hysterical laugh and buries his face in her dark hair. “I-I guess it varies by, like, patient and floor and whatever,” he explains. “It’s only for fifteen minutes and I have to get a rapid test and wear a mask the whole time but _fuck,_ I can see him.”

“That’s awesome. It’ll be good for both of you, I bet.”

“Y-Yeah.” Ethan squeezes his eyes shut against a rising tide of emotion. He can’t help but feel terrible for everyone with family and friends on the COVID floors — if this is how it feels to be separated from someone you love when the problem isn’t life-threatening and they can communicate themselves, he can’t imagine what it’s like waiting on news from a doctor about someone critically ill when you know for a fact you won’t be able to see them in person. Ethan’s heard the stories and read plenty of news articles about it, but he knows he still doesn’t understand that kind of helplessness. And he hopes he never does, because this kind has been killing him for almost two days now.

Kathryn’s soft voice brings him back to the present: “When are you heading over there?”

“Mark said the earliest they could let me in would be five thirty, but I’m gonna wait till six in case the shift change takes too long or they still have one more patient to move off the floor.”

“Gotcha. Do you want me to drive you?”

“N-No, I think I’ll be okay. Thanks, though.”

They stand there hugging for another minute until Ethan feels like he can hold himself up. He peels himself out of Kathryn’s arms and rubs at his teary eyes with a hoodie sleeve. “Sorry,” he mutters with a sheepish smile, reaching down to pat Chica’s head. “‘M just really tired and really … _really_ happy.”

Kathryn nods. “I know you are.” There’s a glint in her eyes that’s barely visible through the lenses of her glasses, but Ethan sees it and it makes his ears burn.

“What?”

“Nothing.” She settles back down on the couch with an almost smug grin tugging at the corner of her mouth. Putting her headphones back on, she shoots Ethan a quick glance that he can’t decipher. “Go distract yourself for a little longer. It’ll be time to leave before you know it.”

It’s true. Ethan nods, gives himself a quick shake, and heads back downstairs to finish his recording. Kathryn’s just being supportive, that’s all. There’s no way she knows what Ethan’s really feeling — she’s not a telepath, and he’s good at keeping shit bottled up. Right?

Before he turns his camera back on, Ethan sends a brief text to Amy. They’re still very good friends, but they’re the kind of friends who don’t need to talk every day to maintain their closeness. He hasn’t reached out to her since this craziness started, mostly because he wasn’t sure what to say. She still cares about Mark, of course, but she is his ex. Ethan had been afraid of sounding weird by asking her how she was holding up. Now that he’s fairly confident she’s doing alright based on what Mark’s told him, he only has one thing to say to her.

 ** _thank you._** He’s pretty sure she’ll know what he means.

Her response comes less than a minute later: 💜💜💜

They’re just purple hearts. They probably don’t mean anything. But Ethan can’t shake the feeling that the color choice was deliberate. If he thinks about it too long, though, he won’t be able to finish this stupid video.

Hoping his blush isn’t too visible on camera, Ethan slips back into his online persona like he’s putting on a pair of two left shoes. Even if this footage is shit, he hopes Justin can curate something out of it.

* * *

Ethan has had a weird relationship with time his whole life.

ADHD and the executive dysfunction it causes has always made Ethan feel like he never has enough time to do anything, even when he has all the time in the world. Unus Annus had helped him grapple with it and gave him more motivation and confidence in himself than anything else he’s ever worked on, but it still reinforced that feeling of a time limit over everything he wants to accomplish. It had been both the longest and the shortest 12 months of his life — the 12-hour sendoff livestream alone had gone by in the blink of an eye.

The five hours between Mark telling him he can visit and pulling into the hospital’s crowded parking garage are both the longest and least-productive five hours of Ethan’s life. He records one more short video, walks the dogs around the block, then spends the rest of the time in his bedroom anxiously scrolling through social media. Mark is trending on Twitter, of course, but the posts have gone from lighthearted and meme-y to more heartfelt and concerned since he announced he’d be having surgery after all. They warm Ethan’s heart, and he hopes Mark has seen some of the things people are writing about him.

Around four, he remembers the duffel bag he’d packed for Mark on a whim last night and goes through it one more time to see if he’s missed anything. He’s looking around his living room to see if something useful or entertaining pops out at him when he gets an idea.

On a high shelf in Ethan’s closet, shoved to the very back behind shoe boxes and scarves and other junk, there is an item Ethan has owned for over six years and never told Mark about. He’s always been afraid of the teasing, the embarrassment, the accusations of fanboying that would no doubt result from Mark discovering this item. But in this moment, thinking of things to bring his ailing best friend in the hospital, Ethan decides those fears are stupid.

He lugs the duffel upstairs to his room, plops it on his bed, and walks over to his closet. It takes a minute of rearranging things and craning up on his tiptoes, but he eventually gets a grip on his target and pulls it free.

Sighing deeply, Ethan holds the Tiny Box Tim plush in his hands and stares at it in thought. It’s a little squished and one of the felt hands is folded permanently in half from being stored for so long; Ethan rubs it with his thumb a few times to flatten it as much as he can. He remembers how excited he’d been to receive this toy in the mail after buying it during one of Mark’s charity livestreams in 2014 — it had been a month or two after he’d met Mark at PAX East that summer, but long before they’d started talking semi-regularly. He hadn’t kept it in his bed or brought it with him to school or anything, but it had been perched lovingly on a shelf in his first recording space where he could see it from his desk. As childish as it sounds, the cartoony smiling face had been a good friend to Ethan on his longest nights of recording and editing. And that’s what Mark needs with him right now — a friend.

 _He’s never gonna let me hear the end of this,_ Ethan thinks wryly as he unzips the duffel and crams the plush inside.

He leaves shortly after five with a hug from Kathryn, a kiss from Spencer, and a few nuzzles from Chica. Kathryn is adamant that she can handle both dogs on her own while Ethan’s gone, despite his fretting. “Hug him for me if you can,” she says, that knowing glint from earlier returning to her eyes. Ethan doesn’t ask about it, but promises he’ll pass on her well-wishes nonetheless.

The drive takes ages. Traffic is terrible, and there’s an accident on the freeway that holds Ethan up for an extra 10 minutes, but he finally makes it to UMC at 6 p.m. on the dot. The flickering fluorescent lights of the parking garage unsettle him a bit, and his fingers shake as he sends Mark a quick text: **_just parked. i’m wearing the more effective mask like you said_**

 _Great,_ comes the quick reply. _Can’t wait to see you. There should be a place to get your temp checked at the front entrance, then they’ll bring you in for the test_

**_sounds good. see you soon_ **

_See you soon._ ❤️

Another heart emoji? Jesus, Ethan’s already got enough adrenaline coursing through him right now without Mark pulling this shit. He shoves his phone in his back pocket before he can send one himself, taking a deep breath. Once his mask is adjusted so it’s tucked more securely under the bridge of his glasses, he climbs out of the car and points himself towards the main hospital building. The straps of the duffel dig uncomfortably into his shoulder as he walks, and he focuses on that mild pain to keep himself grounded.

The check-in process, or whatever it’s called, goes by in a flurry of caution and rigid protocol that Ethan tries to follow to the letter. He signs a few papers, answers a few questions, and lets a nurse in full PPE take his temperature and prick his finger for the rapid virus test. He has to wait under a large heated tent outside the building until the results come back, but the fact that he’s not the only one waiting there is encouraging to him. If this was in any way dangerous to himself, Mark, or anyone else in the hospital, Ethan wouldn’t be doing it, no matter how badly he wanted to.

It doesn’t take super long for his test to come back negative, but it’s long enough that he picks off the fresh coat of black nail polish he’d painted on his nails a few hours ago. The instant he hears his name called, his head snaps up and his back straightens. A nurse waves him towards the tent’s exit with a gloved hand and he hurries over, hoping he doesn’t look too much like a giddy schoolboy.

Because it’s not giddiness he’s feeling. Yes, he’s thrilled at the chance to visit Mark, but a lot of what’s making his nervous system go absolutely batshit right now is dread. He’s afraid to see Mark laid up in a hospital bed in person instead of on his phone screen. He’s afraid to come face-to-face with the realities of the pandemic and the toll it’s having on the country’s health care system. Selfishly, he’s also a little afraid of catching the virus here, even though he’ll be bypassing the floors packed to the brim with COVID patients.

Mostly, though, Ethan’s afraid of having to say goodbye to Mark once those precious 15 minutes are up. He knows as soon as he sees Mark he won’t want to leave.

 _Make the most of the time you have,_ Mark’s voice echoes between Ethan’s ears. He intends to do just that.

The nurse that brings Ethan up to the eighth floor is very nice. Judging from her voice and the sliver of her face Ethan can see behind her face shield and mask, she can’t be much older than him. “So who’s Mark, then?” she asks him in the elevator, her tired but upbeat blue eyes flickering down to the clipboard she’s holding with Mark’s information and room number on it. “Your brother?”

Ethan shakes his head, fiddling simultaneously with the strap of the duffel bag and the edge of the hot pink VISITOR sticker on his chest. “No, uh, his family’s all in Cincinnati,” he explains. “He’s my — my best friend.”

“Ah, I see. Well it’s very sweet of you to come visit him — I’m sure he’ll love seeing a familiar face. People tend to get lonely in here these days.”

She says it so lightly, but the far-off look in her eyes doesn’t escape Ethan’s notice. Swallowing hard, he shifts his weight from foot to foot before saying softly, “Hey, um. I-I just wanna say thank you. Not just for, like, bringing me to his room, but for … everything you’re doing. I haven’t had the chance to thank anyone in the medical field in person since the start of all this, so. Really, thank you.”

The yellow plastic coverall she’s wearing crinkles as she turns towards him. Her eyes smile. “You really are too sweet.”

The elevator stops at the eighth floor, and so does the conversation. The nurse — Ethan feels bad for not catching her name when she’d introduced herself downstairs — briskly leads Ethan to the short-term stay rooms. They stop at number 828, and Ethan’s heart pounds harder than it has since the first show of the You’re Welcome tour. There’s a curtain drawn just inside the glass door, blocking the view of the bed beyond it; Ethan briefly considers barging in and ripping it down from the ceiling so nothing can separate him from Mark anymore.

Knocking lightly, the nurse opens the door and enters the room to peek around the curtain. Ethan doesn’t hear what she says, but he recognizes Mark’s voice when he responds, “Yeah, I’m ready. Let him in.”

The curtain is drawn back, and Ethan’s eyes finally meet Mark’s.

“Fifteen minutes, okay, boys? And please leave the door open,” the nurse says. Ethan nods without comprehending the words. She’s gone a second later, leaving him rigid in the doorway.

Mark offers him a crooked smile and looks up at him like nothing else in the world matters. “Hey,” he rasps, voice gritty and hoarse but as deep and chocolatey as ever. “You can come in, man, it’s okay.”

So many stimuli are attacking Ethan’s mind at once that it takes a conscious effort to put one foot in front of the other. He doesn’t know where to look first — his eyes dart from the hospital bed raised at a slight incline, to the IV stand beside it, the drip lines attached to Mark’s right hand feeding him medication, and finally to the NG tube leading from Mark’s taped-up nose to a bag concealed somewhere under the white blankets covering Mark’s legs. His hair isn’t as messy as Ethan expected it to be, but he can tell it hasn’t been washed in a day or two, and his typically tan skin looks much paler in this harsh lighting. Ironically, the fake diamond stud in Mark’s right earlobe shines brighter than ever in here.

The blood rushing in his ears makes it hard for Ethan to hear himself when he stammers, “Y-You can’t go one fuckin’ year without some freak medical thing, can you?”

Mark laughs weakly and rolls his eyes but doesn’t turn away from Ethan for a moment. “And here I was thinking you were here to make me feel better,” he teases. His left hand — the one blessedly free of IV ports — waves Ethan closer, and his gaze drifts to the duffel. “Did you bring me something?”

Ethan feels like he’s wading through neck-deep water as he approaches the left side of Mark’s bed. “A couple somethings, actually,” he says, setting the bag carefully beside Mark’s legs.

This feels rushed and weird. There’s so much he wants to say to Mark, so many questions he has about how he’s coping in here, but he knows they’ve only got so much time. So he drags a plastic chair over from the corner of the small room and sits down, trying not to blush under the weight of Mark’s slightly glassy gaze.

They unpack the duffel together, and Mark’s smile gets wider with every item he finds. He laughs again when he pulls out the Korean phrasebook and the _Warhammer_ novel at the same time. “Great pairing here,” he chuckles, setting them carefully on the little table attached to the bed. “Oh my god, and my Switch! Eth, you didn’t have to do this.”

“I know. I wanted to,” Ethan says. A tiny grin forms behind his mask before he realizes it — Mark’s happiness has always been contagious. “I-I packed this last night, when I went over to get Chica. I didn’t think I’d actually get to bring it to you.”

Mark’s luminous grin softens at that. This close, Ethan can see how watery his right eye is from the tube, but there’s nothing but gratitude and fondness shining in it. “Well I’m very glad you got to,” he says softly. “I have been _so fucking bored,_ you have no idea. And … I missed you.”

“I missed you, too,” Ethan says like he’s confessing his darkest secret. He locks eyes with Mark for a few heart-stopping seconds before turning back to the duffel. _Don’t lose your grip now._

The Cloak cloak ends up draped around Mark’s shoulders with Ethan’s help — the tiny wince he tries to hide as he sits up a bit further makes Ethan want to stab something — and the soft pillow is tucked behind Mark’s head on top of the flat hospital one. Once Ethan’s plugged the phone cable in beneath Mark’s bed, there’s only one more thing left in the bag.

“What the hell?” Mark holds up the Tiny Box Tim plush and stares at it in awe. “This — This is one of mine, isn’t it? This is official merch?”

Ethan nods, the first tendrils of embarrassment creeping through his chest. “I bought it in 2014,” he admits, and Mark’s jaw drops further. “What? It was for a charity stream!”

“I remember what it was for, I just can’t believe you have one!” Mark turns the plush around in his hands, squeezing it gently as he looks it over like a dog inspecting a new toy. _Enrichment,_ Ethan thinks, and he almost laughs.

“I’ve kinda kept it hidden since I moved out here,” the younger man explains. God, he already feels his cheeks heating up. “I didn’t wanna come off as, like, just another fanboy or whatever. But I used to have it in my recording space at my dad’s house as kind of a … motivator, I guess? And this might sound dumb, but it helped me feel less alone sometimes when I was failing school and working my ass of at YouTube and gymnastics at the same time. So … I dunno, I-I thought maybe since you can’t have human company and dogs aren’t allowed … ”

He trails off with a helpless shrug. Mark’s looking at him with the same sappy, disbelieving expression he’d had after Ethan’s final monologue of the “Brutally Honest” Unus Annus video, and it’s almost enough to break Ethan completely.

“Thank you,” the older man says, genuine and heartfelt. He tears his bottomless brown eyes away from Ethan to look back down at Tiny Box Tim. “Really, thank you.”

“Of course,” Ethan replies. The urge to reach out and pat Mark’s arm comfortingly is a physical force, and it takes every ounce of concentration to hold himself back. _Why am I holding back?_

Mark stares at the toy for another few seconds, considering, before closing his eyes and bringing it up to his face. He takes a slow, careful inhale through his mostly-blocked nose and sighs, content. “It smells like you,” he whispers, so quiet Ethan almost doesn’t hear it.

But he does hear it. And those words paired with the image in front of him are finally too much for him to handle.

Ethan takes in the tubes and needles and gown like he’s seeing them for the first time. It hits him all at once that this is _Mark_ in front of him, half-lying down on a hospital bed hours away from _yet another_ surgery but somehow still in a good mood. In less than ten minutes, Ethan’s gonna have to leave him here alone again in this sterile room surrounded by strangers and disease and death. It isn’t fair. _None_ of this is fair.

The feeling of Mark’s hand resting on top of his brings Ethan’s vision back into focus. “Eth?” Mark’s tone is quiet and worried, concern falling like a shadow across his handsome face. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

Ethan doesn’t know what Mark means until he blinks and feels a pair of tears slip down his cheeks. Still not registering his own emotions, he drops his gaze from Mark’s to stare at their joined hands on the white bedspread. Mark’s is warm and slightly larger than his own, but the back of it is covered in tape that’s holding his IV port in place. Beneath the tape, Ethan can see the edges of a dark bruise.

A sob crawls up his throat and manages to escape. After that, he’s done.

Ethan shudders forwards and drops his forehead against Mark’s arm as he shatters completely. Every ounce of fear and worry and helplessness and love he’s been choking on for the past 20-ish hours floods out of him in a rush of tears as he stars weeping softly, clinging to whatever part of Mark he can reach. He feels warm skin and the hospital gown between his fingers when he balls them into fists, and he doesn’t think anything could make him let go.

“I _hate_ this,” he gasps between sobs. “I _hate_ seeing you like this and knowing you have to be alone. I-I should be able to stay here with you and watch dumb movies and videos and be here when you wake up tomorrow but I _can’t,_ and I’m s-sorry you’re in pain and I wish I could do more to help you, _fuck_ COVID, fuck e-everything, fuck it _fuck it fuck it — ”_

“Ethan … ” Even through his sudden hysterics, Ethan can tell Mark’s at a loss. The older man gently pries his right hand out from where it’s become pinned beneath Ethan’s arms, and Ethan feels it come to rest on his shoulder a moment later. “It’s alright, bud.”

“No it’s _not,”_ Ethan spits, squeezing his eyes shut tighter.

A pause. “Okay, yeah. It’s not.” Mark’s hand slowly slides up to the back of Ethan’s head. He cards his fingers through Ethan’s hair in a steady, soothing rhythm like he’s calming Chica during a rare L.A. thunderstorm. “But _I’m_ alright, I promise. I’m right here, Eth.”

Ethan wishes he had time to sit here and cry for an hour or two while Mark pets him and talks to him in that low, sonorous purr, but he knows he doesn’t. The nurse is gonna come back any minute to usher him out of the building and he’ll have to wait another day or two to see Mark again — if the surgery goes well, that is. If there’s complications or they find some bigger problem, who knows how long Mark will be stuck here?

He lets himself fall apart for another minute, then forces himself to sit up and pull away from Mark’s warmth. “I’m sorry,” he mutters, sniffling noisily. Eugh, crying in a mask is gross. There’s a small sink on the other side of the room with a stack of paper towels on the counter beside it, and Ethan gets up from his uncomfortable chair to clean himself off before Mark can object. His glasses are fogging up, too, so he takes them off and sets them on the counter while he dries his swollen eyes and tugs his mask down just far enough to wipe his nose. _Fucking baby,_ he thinks to himself.

Mark’s gaze is heavy and near-omnipotent, boring a hole through the back of Ethan’s head while Ethan washes his hands. Ethan can’t look up to meet it as he turns around and shuffles back to the bed. “Sorry,” he says again, depositing himself in the plastic chair like he’s just finished a marathon. “I-I feel like I’m making this about myself now.”

“You’re not,” Mark firmly assures him. He takes one of Ethan’s hands again and squeezes until Ethan dares to meet his eyes. With a mournful, apologetic smile, Mark lets his head fall back against his pillows — he looks utterly exhausted. _“I’m_ sorry. I know, I know, this whole thing was completely out of my control, but it’s causing you grief so I’m allowed to feel bad about it.”

Ethan shakes his head and leans over the edge of the bed a bit, resting his weight on his elbows. It’s only natural, then, to cradle Mark’s left hand in both of his. The white hospital wristband with Mark’s name, birthday, and other information printed on it only makes all this feel more horrifically real.

“I don’t want you to feel bad,” Ethan murmurs, tracing Mark’s knuckles with his thumb without breaking eye contact. “I just want you to feel better. I hope the surgery fixes it for a few years like you said.”

“Me too.” Mark heaves a deep sigh and his eyelids flutter like he’s having trouble keeping them open. His earring catches the light as he shifts slightly closer to Ethan, and Ethan finds himself fixated on it. The memory of pushing the piercing needle through Mark’s earlobe flashes briefly through Ethan’s mind — he’d been so afraid of causing Mark pain, of hearing him yelp and cry out because of something Ethan did. A hurt Mark is pretty much the worst thing Ethan can think of.

His eyes drift to the NG tube then, and he forces himself to not look away as he asks softly, “D-Does that still hurt?”

“No, not really,” Mark says with a slow blink. “‘S just kinda annoying. It’s like I’ve got something stuck in my throat that won’t go away.”

“Ew. That must suck.”

“Yeah. Hurt like hell going in, but I’m used to it now. Morphine’s helping, too.”

“Yeah, I bet it is.” Ethan sniffles and clears his throat, then finds himself fixated on something else. The collar of the hospital gown Mark’s wearing is loose and low-cut, and the way he’s reclining in the bed now has allowed it to ride down just far enough to expose the ends of his collarbones. It’s nothing Ethan hasn’t seen before, of course, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t distracting.

Biting his lip behind his mask, Ethan brings one of his hands up to rest feather-light on Mark’s broad chest. The steady thrum of a strong heartbeat greets him, and he feels his own shoulders relax a little. “You’re alive,” he whispers, half to himself, and it’s like the earth rights itself on its axis.

Mark nods, squeezing Ethan’s hand again. “I’m alive.” He’s being so touchy — morphine side-effect, maybe?

Without conscious thought on Ethan’s part, Ethan’s free hand creeps slowly from the left side of Mark’s chest to the edge of the gown’s collar. He feels more than hears Mark’s next breath hitch as he dares to brush his fingertips over the smooth, warm skin at the hollow of Mark’s throat and the top of his sternum. Something like electricity makes Ethan’s whole hand tingle at the first hint of contact. _He hasn’t shoved me away yet,_ he realizes belatedly.

Time slows to a standstill. The room and the building around them melt away. Ethan’s eyes refocus on Mark’s face — his gorgeous, familiar, perfect face, framed by dark waves of greasy hair — and he lets himself stare more openly than ever before. Even like this, tired and mildly drugged and hooked up to various medical devices, Mark is still the most beautiful thing Ethan’s ever seen in his life. He’s radiating heat like a furnace, as always, and all Ethan wants to do is climb into this bed, curl up beside him, and melt against him until they need to be surgically separated.

“Eth,” Mark breathes, watching him in wonder. There’s an unmistakable pink tinge to his cheeks now, a welcome change from how pallid they’d looked before.

Ethan’s mouth is suddenly dry as Death Valley. He should stop — every rational cell in his brain is telling him this is too much, that he shouldn’t be leaning incrementally closer and rubbing tiny, gentle circles into Mark’s skin like he’s applying a layer of fucking Vick’s — but it’s like his fingertips are magnetized to the spot. Jesus Christ, _what_ is he doing? Mark is his best friend and despite the weird signals he’s been throwing lately, he’s never given any indication that he’s anything but ramrod straight.

But maybe that doesn’t matter. Maybe it doesn’t matter that Ethan’s never felt the need to label his own sexuality, either. Maybe they’ve been dancing around this nameless thing for years, slowly spinning closer and closer to each other around a single point. Red and blue, black and white.

A spiral.

Words. Ethan needs to use his words if he wants to get out of this situation with his pride and will to live intact. Curling his fingers loosely in the thin fabric of the hospital gown, he asks softly, “Why did Amy want me to be the one to visit you?”

Mark swallows as best he can and wets his dry lips with a quick flick of his pink tongue. “Why are you still holding my hand?” he retorts after a moment, but his feeble attempt at smartassery comes across as breathless awe. Ethan feels the rumble of his voice under his palm and holds back a shiver.

It’s true — Ethan’s left hand is still gripping Mark’s, their palms pressed together too snugly to be platonic anymore. Ethan glances down at the point of contact and drags his pinkie against Mark’s a couple times, considering. He doesn’t have a good answer to Mark’s question, but even if he did it wouldn’t matter.

Because the next thing he hears is a quiet knock on the door of Mark’s room. “That’s fifteen minutes,” the young nurse’s voice says, apologetic but firm.

Ethan’s head snaps up and he locks eyes with Mark again, heart sinking eight stories to the ground floor below. He barely gets the chance to feel panicked or sad before Mark blurts, “Five more.”

The older man turns to the nurse with a desperate look on his expressive face, brown eyes wide and pleading. “Five more minutes,” he croaks, gripping Ethan’s hand tighter. “Please. I-I’m sorry.”

Ethan looks over at the nurse himself and sees her eyes flit between him and Mark behind her face shield. She hesitates, clearly weighing her options in her head, before glancing down at the watch on her wrist. When she looks back up at the two men, she must realize what she’s just interrupted and sighs softly. “Alright,” she concedes, “but I’m watching the clock.”

She’s gone a moment later. Ethan has no idea how a simple, earnest plea was enough to convince her, but he doesn’t care. He turns back to Mark, breath caught in his throat, and waits for whatever’s supposed to happen next.

Mark holds Ethan captive with a steady, searching gaze as his free hand comes up to loosen Ethan’s grip on his gown. Their fingers lace together effortlessly; Ethan’s heart pounds behind his ribs so hard it almost hurts. He’s held hands with Mark in a jokey context before, so he thought he knew how it would feel if it ever happened for … other reasons. He was so wrong. How Mark manages to make him feel so secure and grounded without outright hugging him is a baffling mystery, but he hopes it’s never solved.

After an unsteady exhale, Mark breaks the heavy silence with simple, planet-consuming statement that catches Ethan completely off guard: “Amy wanted you to visit me because she knows the enormity of what I feel for you and wants us both to be happy more than anything else.”

It takes a good 15 seconds for Ethan to take in those words, fully process them, and figure out what they mean. Yeah, those purple hearts Amy sent him earlier were definitely deliberate. He can hardly believe his luck, can barely comprehend the idea that not only does Amy _know,_ but she’s practically given them her blessing.

_God._

When his brain is done short-circuiting, Ethan huffs out a breathy laugh and leans even closer to Mark as if bewitched. “U-Uh.” Clearing his throat, he shakes his head in disbelief and does his best to form a coherent sentence through the rush of endorphins threatening to unravel him. “The, uh, the reason I’m still holding your hand — hands, now, I guess — i-is because of the enormity of _my_ feelings for _you.”_

It’s love. Ethan knows it is. He knows he loves Mark like he knows his own name. But a confession of that magnitude shouldn’t happen under such a tight time constraint, or in a stressful environment like this one.

Mark must be able to tell what he means, though, because the anxiety in his eyes slowly morphs into a giddy type of incredulous joy Ethan doesn’t think he’s ever seen from Mark before. The smile that spreads across Mark’s face is radiant and beautiful, and he tightens his hold on Ethan’s hands even further. Ethan can’t help but reflect that smile back at him, even if it’s hidden by his mask.

Despite said mask, Mark’s gaze drifts down to Ethan’s mouth after a few seconds of basking in this new reality they’ve found themselves in. He stares, bites his own bottom lip briefly, and pulls Ethan an inch or two closer. “You ever kiss a guy with a tube up his nose?” he asks.

Ethan’s face burns instantly. In any other circumstance, he’d burst out laughing at that ridiculous question and Mark’s blunt, slightly dazed tone. But here and now, it makes him feel like he’s in a dream. God, he wants to kiss Mark, nurse and IV and NG tube be damned. For a split second, he almost reaches up to tug his mask down and risk being banned from this hospital for the rest of Mark’s stay. Some inner strength deep within him stops him at the last moment, but the desire doesn’t dissipate in the slightest.

“N-No,” he stammers finally after convincing himself that yes, Mark did actually say that, and this is actually happening. “But, uh. I-If I take off my mask they’ll probably escort me outta here with armed guards, so.”

“Mmm, good point.” Mark’s thumbs are doing something hypnotic against the delicate skin of Ethan’s inner wrists. It kind of tickles, but Ethan wouldn’t tell Mark to stop for anything. “Guess you’ll have to settle for this, then.”

Before Ethan can so much as blink, Mark sits up, leans forward, and presses his lips to the corner of Ethan’s cloth-covered mouth. And just like that, he changes Ethan’s life again.

The room starts spinning in Ethan’s periphery the moment Mark’s nose bumps against his. This — He — How is this even happening right now? He’s frozen stiff, holding his breath in case a harsh exhale scares Mark away. It’s strange, being kissed through a mask, but Ethan’s heart still threatens to burst out of his chest when Mark hums into the fabric. Ethan can almost taste the sound — it’s lightning and rain and tobacco, sea water and desert sand — and he wishes he could part his own lips to sample it properly. When his brain finally convinces him this is real, Ethan sighs, lets his eyes flutter closed, and turns his face slightly towards Mark’s like a flower seeking sunlight to prolong the muffled contact. He’s never felt so electrified from a kiss before, and this isn’t even really a kiss.

He’ll take it, though. Ethan will take as much of it as he can get, for as long as he can get it, until he can have the real thing.

Mark breaks the pseudo-kiss after what feels like hours but couldn’t have been longer than 30 seconds. Resting his forehead against Ethan’s, he reasserts his grip on Ethan’s hands like he intends to never let go. “Think of that as a preview,” he whispers, voice ragged from more than just exhaustion and the tube in his throat.

Gulping audibly, Ethan gently pries one of his hands out of Mark’s to brush a lock of Mark’s long obsidian hair back. “Okay.” His fingertips linger against Mark’s stubbled jaw in an intimate touch he’s fantasized about countless times. Quirking a tiny grin he hopes Mark can see in his eyes behind his glasses, he murmurs, “Hold that thought for another day or two and I promise it’ll be worth it.”

He isn’t bluffing. The instant Ethan gets a healthy Mark alone, he’s gonna —

“And that’s five minutes.” The nurse is back. Ethan doesn’t spare her a glance yet. “That’s all the time I can give you, unfortunately.”

Ethan knows how he and Mark must look right now, eyes hooded and flushed faces close together. The aching need he feels in the core of his bones to never leave Mark’s side again is a hard thing to resist, but somehow he does, if only to avoid the wrath of the hospital administration.

“You’re gonna be fine,” he whispers as he carefully disentangles himself from Mark. _Might as well get in_ some _comforting before I leave._ “You’re gonna be okay. And I’ll be waiting for you on the other side. You were never allowed to die on me, but now you’re _really_ not allowed to fuckin’ die on me, you understand?”

Mark is clearly reluctant to let go of Ethan’s hand and the sleeve of his hoodie, but his grip eventually loosens. “Yeah,” he breathes, and the pure wonder in his eyes and voice nearly makes Ethan’s knees buckle as he stands.

Ethan hastily stuffs the books and the Switch back in the duffel bag at the foot of Mark’s bed before going back over to the sink. He feels the watchful eyes of both the nurse and Mark on his back as he washes his hands, more out of habit than anything, and dries them with a coarse paper towel. His whole body is still buzzing with energy and disbelief after everything that’s just happened and he barely feels his feet touch the floor as he walks to meet the nurse by the glass door.

He looks over his shoulder at Mark right before he’s ushered out. The older man looks so small and young like this, lying in a hospital bed with the black cloak wrapped around him and the Tiny Box Tim plush tucked in the crook of his right arm. The instinct to _hold-protect-save_ knocks the wind momentarily out of Ethan’s lungs — he’d give anything to be able to stay here.

With a hopeful, lopsided grin, Mark lifts one hand in a goodbye wave. _To be continued,_ his eyes say.

A strange melancholy follows Ethan like a dark cloud as the nurse leads him all the way back down to the crowded ground floor. It’s strangely familiar, and it gets stronger with every step he takes away from Mark. There’s a physical force connecting them, it seems — it’s always been there, ever since Ethan’s first day in L.A. — but it’s never felt quite this … insistent.

That thought is what helps him finally identify what he’s feeling. It’s familiar because he’s felt it before at least twice — once when he was watching the ground get farther away from his window seat on his first flight to California in 2016, and again earlier today when he’d realized he wouldn’t be visiting home for Christmas this year.

He’s homesick. For Mark.

As cliché and sappy as that is, it still gives Ethan pause as he climbs into his car to drive home. He’ll never admit it to Mark, of course, but he can admit it to himself just this once.

* * *

The rest of the night passes in a dreamlike daze. Ethan doesn’t tell Kathryn what happened — he isn’t sure if it would be considered “outing” Mark — but as he’s giving her the basic updates on Mark’s condition, he can tell that _she_ can tell that he’s leaving some details of his visit out. But she doesn’t press the issue, because she’s an angel, and simply asks him to let her know when Mark’s surgery will be when he finds out.

Which he does, a couple hours later. He’s hanging out with the dogs in the living room after finishing a brief, impulsive Pokémon card stream with Chris (who also asked about Mark, of course) when Mark texts him: _They’ll take me up for surgery around 6:15 tomorrow morning. Won’t be a very long procedure. If the scans and tests come back clear afterwards, I should hopefully be discharged tomorrow night._

Ethan’s heart leaps in his chest at that news, but there’s a new tension in the air as he shoots off an excited reply. He knows he and Mark need to talk about … _things,_ and he’s dying to get clarification on where exactly they stand, but that’s a conversation they should have in person. Preferably in the comfort of one of their homes and without the potential influence of morphine.

There’s an inkling of that clarification in Mark’s next message, though, and it only makes Ethan miss him more: _I gave your number to the nurses so someone can call you once I’m out of surgery and let you know how it went. Hope you don’t mind_

**_no no of course i don’t mind!! i’ll set an alarm for 7 so i know i’ll be awake when they call_ **

_Wow, 7 a.m.? I didn’t know you were capable of being awake that early_

**_i don’t always sleep till noon i’ll have you know!_ **

_I have yet to see a wealth of proof to the contrary but I’ll take your word for it just this once._

Ethan doesn’t realize he’s been staring at his phone with a dopey, lovesick grin for several minutes until another text pops up: _I’m glad you came to see me_

It’s as close to an acknowledgment of what’s brewing between them as Ethan can take right now, while he can’t look into Mark’s eyes and pull him close. **_i’m glad i did too_**

_I’m sorry I haven’t kept in touch very well these last few weeks. Part of me thought it would make all the weird things I was feeling go away, but that obviously didn’t happen._

Ethan … isn’t sure what to say to that admission, at first. As unsurprising as the near-complete radio silence from Mark after the end of Unus Annus had been, given Mark’s tendency to bury himself in work at the expense of his interpersonal relationships, it had still hurt. He isn’t surprised by this motivation behind it, either — it’s a very Mark thing, avoiding the causes of frightening or confusing emotions. He just wishes so badly they could have this talk in person, or at least with their voices, but he knows Mark wouldn’t want a nurse or doctor walking in on a phone call. Biting his lip, he types out his response after a minute of thought: **_do you wish they had gone away?_**

Less than five seconds later: _Absolutely not_

Warmth radiates out from the center of Ethan’s chest to the tips of his fingers and toes. His anxious frown slowly spreads into an ecstatic grin as he replies, **_i’m glad they didn’t_**

_So am I._

From there, the conversation meanders to different topics and Ethan’s heart stops acting funny. There’s plenty of questions in the back of his mind — how long has Mark felt like this? When did Amy find out? Where do they go from here? — but he pushes them aside to be dug up later, when this separation ends. Mark tells him about the “nightmare patient” in the room next to his and sends him a list of all the ridiculous, incomprehensible things she’s said so far today. Once he’s done laughing hysterically, Ethan sends Mark a few screenshots of supportive messages and lighthearted memes he’s seen related to Mark’s hospital stay. As overbearing as the fans can be sometimes, they also have their moments of genuine sweetness, which both Mark and Ethan appreciate.

They keep texting until the pauses between Mark’s messages get longer and longer, meaning he’s probably nodding off. When Ethan sees it’s almost 11 p.m., he tells Mark to get some sleep and promises he’ll be awake early enough to answer the phone in the morning. Mark calls him “Eef” when he says goodnight, which shouldn’t be as endearing as it is.

Ethan almost confesses everything right then and there. He almost sends Mark a seemingly innocuous **_sleep well, love you_** text, wanting to get it out in the open, but he holds back. It’s probably too soon for that yet — Mark hasn’t given a name to what he feels for Ethan yet; Ethan wonders if he knows what to call it at all. Hopefully they’ll both find out the next time they’re together.

Before going to bed himself, Ethan makes his way to the kitchen for a mug of tea. He says goodnight to Chica, who’s curled up in her bed by now, and beckons Spencer to follow him upstairs to his room with a soft whistle. After poking his head into Kathryn’s room to let her know when Mark’s surgery is, he sits cross-legged on his bed with his laptop and checks his emails. Justin’s returned an edit from a few days ago, it seems, so Ethan watches it through a couple times and sends back a note or two. Idly, he wonders if Mark would accept his help getting back on track once he’s able to work again. Ben and Evan have been great at keeping things running on the back end, from what Mark says, but Ethan knows how much Mark hates not being able to operate at 100% efficiency. Hell, Ethan wouldn’t even say no to doing a few quick edits for Mark if it helps.

Yeah, okay, he’s whipped. So what?

Once his tea his gone and his teeth are brushed, Ethan finally curls up in bed. It’s been an insanely long day and he’s endured it on 4-ish hours of shitty sleep. As wired as he still feels, both from his visit with Mark and his anxiety surrounding Mark’s surgery in the morning, there’s a new inner peace deep within him that weighs his eyelids down and helps him drift off within minutes of touching his head to his pillow.

Somehow, he doesn’t even dream.

* * *

“You sure you’re alright?”

Ethan looks up from his scuffed Nikes to meet Amy’s curious brown eyes. “Y-Yeah, I’m fine,” he insists, but it doesn’t sound very convincing even to his own ears. Wrapping his arms tighter around himself against the chilly night air, he turns his gaze back to the doors of the outpatient clinic and waits.

It’s almost 11 at night, and Mark’s finally been discharged. His surgery this morning had gone very well, according to the doctor Ethan had spoken with on the phone around 8 a.m., but they’d kept him under observation for the rest of the day just to make sure everything was working as it should again.

(Translation: They’d waited until Mark had a bowel movement. Which Ethan doesn’t like thinking about too much, but he figures it could be worse.)

Now he’s apparently somewhere on the other side of those doors, filling out the last of the paperwork and waiting on his final rapid COVID test results. Ethan can practically _feel_ him; he wants so badly to rush into the building and lunge, enveloping Mark in his arms and keeping him safe from anything and everything that would dare harm him again. Mark’s protectiveness of Ethan is well-documented — even if a good chunk of that documentation was deleted with Unus Annus — but Ethan thinks he might just give the older man a run for his money after this whole experience.

Thank god Amy and Kathryn are with him to keep him somewhat grounded. They’re mainly here for Mark, of course, but Kathryn’s stood close to Ethan’s side the whole time they’ve been standing out here and Amy has kept him calm with stories of her recent camping trip. Truthfully, Ethan thinks Amy should be the one getting the most support here — she’d been in love with Mark not too long ago, after all — but he’ll take what he can get.

After all, he’s the one in love with Mark now.

Tapping one foot restlessly against the pavement, Ethan pulls out his phone for the hundredth time in an hour and navigates back to his most recent conversation with Mark. The texts he’d received as Mark was slowly coming down from the anesthesia this morning had been … well. Comical is one word for it, but “nearly incomprehensible” fits the bill a bit better. There’s so many random numbers and capitalizations and exclamation points that Ethan no longer has to wonder what dealing with a drunk Mark would be like.

The best message he’d received had come with a blurry photo of the Tiny Box Tim plush squished between Mark’s hip and the side of the hospital bed: _Recovry buddyyyyyyyyyyyy thank U eth for him!!!!! Wish u were heere….._ Ethan had saved the photo to his phone immediately and spent a good ten minutes fighting off the giddiness he’d felt. Maybe it’s dumb, but having proof that he’d done something right and helped Mark in any way during this craziness had made him feel more important than he ever has.

It had also been the closest to a drug-induced, misspelled love confession out of all the other texts. A post-surgery Mark had had Ethan on his mind, and that knowledge is what’s helping Ethan stay as patient as possible while he waits for Mark to appear from behind those doors.

“You don’t think anything’s wrong, right?” he asks his friends as he shoves his phone back into his pocket. “He would’ve told us if he, like, tested positive or something, right?”

“Of course he would’ve,” Kathryn says, pressing a little closer to him. “There’s probably tons of paperwork for him to sign and look over.”

“And he’s medicated,” Amy chimes in. “He might not be able to find the door right now.”

The thought of a slightly high Mark wandering through the halls of this crowded hospital is both amusing and worrying. Ethan gnaws on his bottom lip and tries not to count the seconds as they pass.

He doesn’t have to try for too long. The doors finally open about a minute later, and Mark emerges like a vision with messy black hair. Ethan’s breath catches in his throat as Amy and Kathryn exclaim their hellos and wave Mark over — the older man is wearing the same clothes he’d worn to MatPat’s stream, jeans and a slightly oversized gray sweater, and he still has a white N95 mask on. He looks fine, even if he seems a little unsteady on his feet, and the smile he reveals when he removes the mask is radiant and familiar and just about the most beautiful thing Ethan’s ever seen. He looks tired and worn out, but he’s upright and free of the IVs and NG tube, which Ethan counts as a major improvement.

“Hey!” Mark says when he reaches his friends, setting down the black duffel and the paper pharmacy bag that likely contains a bottle of pain meds. He wraps Amy in a hug first, and she’s careful not to squeeze him too hard. “It’s good to see you.”

“Good to see you too,” Amy replies, rubbing his back as he pulls away. It’s clear even now how familiar they are with each other. Her dark eyes still sparkle a little when she looks at him. “You had us a little freaked out for awhile.”

“I know, I’m sorry.” Mark turns to Kathryn next, hugging her gently. “I should be all better now, though. Hi, Kathryn.”

“Hey Mark,” Kathryn says with a smile against his shoulder. “Glad you’re okay. You’re not allowed to do that again until this pandemic bullshit is over, you understand?”

“I won’t have another intestinal blockage until it’s most convenient, I promise,” Mark replies with a light chuckle. He draws back from Kathryn, smiles down at her, then turns to Ethan.

For two heart-stopping seconds, Ethan wonders if Mark’s going to kiss him. Here, in public, in front of their friends — one of whom is his ex. But he doesn’t. Instead, his eyes soften at the corners and his wide grin melts into something more intimate as he strides into Ethan’s space and pulls him close without a word.

Ethan’s hugged Mark before, both as a casual greeting and a show of genuine emotion. It’s never felt like this, though — like pure, indescribable relief, like a reunion of souls, like falling into a soft bed after an arduous day. Mark’s chest is sturdy and warm against Ethan’s and his arms are reassuringly strong as they wind around him, holding him tighter than Ethan expected. Ethan fumbles to wrap his own arms loosely around Mark’s middle, not wanting to press on the small incisions he knows are hiding under Mark’s sweater. Mark smells like stale hospital air and antiseptic, but he’s _here,_ and that’s all Ethan cares about.

There’s about a million things Ethan wants to say to Mark in this moment, but only one makes it past his trembling lips. Tucking his nose into the junctions of Mark’s neck and shoulder, he squeezes his eyes shut and whispers, “You’re okay.”

Mark lets out a shaky breath against the shell of Ethan’s ear and nods, tightening his hold. It’s then that Ethan feels how hard Mark’s heart is pounding, feels the slight tremor in his hands as they curl into fists against Ethan’s back. “I’m okay,” he murmurs, and his voice sends a pleasant rumble through Ethan’s body. “I’m fine. Are you okay?”

“Uh-huh,” Ethan replies articulately. He doesn’t know what else he could say. A thousand little typhoons of emotion are coursing through him, but he’s not quite ready to show them in front of Amy and Kathryn. He can feel the girls’ eyes on him, watching the near-desperate way he’s clinging to Mark. It’s not judgmental, really, just … observant.

“Good,” Mark says, reeling Ethan back to awareness. One big hand starts rubbing slow, firm circles between Ethan’s shoulder blades; Ethan does his best to suppress a shiver. “And how’s Chica?”

Maybe Mark is just trying to distract Ethan from the strange tension building in the sliver of space remaining between their bodies, but Ethan doesn’t care. “She’s, uh, she’s fine,” he stammers softly, muffled by Mark’s shoulder. “I-I brought her back to your house on my way here, so. She’s waiting for you. She missed you.”

“I missed her too.” Ethan feels Mark’s nose nuzzle into his hair and has to remind himself how to breathe. “Thank you for taking care of her. Knew I could count on you.”

“Always,” Ethan says before he can stop himself. He means it, though. Anyone with an internet connection knows Ethan would do anything for Mark, so why deny it?

They stand there, tangled up in each other like they’ve been apart for years, for at least a full minute until Kathryn pipes up: “So, Ethan, you’re driving Mark home?” There’s a thin vein of amusement running through her otherwise casual voice.

“U-Um, yeah,” Ethan says, reluctantly extracting himself from the embrace. When Mark’s hands slide down his arms to wrap loosely around his wrists, he can’t help but lock eyes with the older man in surprise. As his slender fingers weave naturally between Mark’s thicker ones, he adds, “Hopefully Chica hasn’t ripped the … the couch apart yet.”

They’re holding hands now. In front of their friends. It’s dark, the lampposts lining the sidewalk casting shadows across all four of them, but even without their light it would be easy to tell what’s happening. Mark doesn’t break eye contact, and Ethan can barely hear him speak over the cacophony of _!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!_ echoing in his head at the moment. “I’m sure she’s fine. I’ve missed her a lot, though, so we should get going.”

“That sounds like a plan,” Amy says from somewhere in the distance. “We’re parked next to you, Eth, so we’ll walk you guys to your car.”

Ethan blinks rapidly a few times and finally glances over at Amy and Kathryn. They both have fond, knowing expressions on their faces — Kathryn in particular meets Ethan’s eyes immediately and quirks an eyebrow behind her glasses. _So this is what you haven’t been telling me these past few days,_ she says with a twitch of her mouth. Amy just looks like a proud mother, arms crossed over her chest as she sizes the two boys up with a smirk. Ethan feels his ears starting to burn. Jesus, this feels surreal.

Mark’s hands letting go of his is what helps Ethan focus again. “Hope it’s not too long a walk,” Mark says with a soft grunt as he bends down to pick up the duffel and pharmacy bag from the pavement. “Being on my feet again after two days is weirder than I remember.”

A hot flare of protectiveness surges in Ethan’s chest and he quickly steps forward. “No no no,” he insists, taking the duffel from Mark and slinging it over his own shoulder. “You aren’t supposed to carry anything heavy for at least a week, mister.”

Mark chuckles softly and runs a hand through his thick hair. “I carried it all the way here,” he argues, but he lets Ethan keep the duffel as the four of them make their way towards the parking garage. His shoulder brushes Ethan’s as they walk, and Ethan has to focus intently to keep from reaching out to hold the hand that keeps bumping his.

The girls say their final goodbyes and hug Mark again when they reach their cars. Mark promises to keep Amy updated on his progress, and as the pair talks in hushed voices, Kathryn walks around to the driver’s side of Ethan’s Tesla, where Ethan’s loading the duffel into the back seat. “So,” she begins, practically cornering him against the side door as he swings it closed, “since when do you and Mark hold hands and look at each other like _that?”_

Blushing even brighter, Ethan fidgets with the door handle and shrugs one shoulder. He’s not sure how much he wants to tell Kathryn yet, mostly because he _still_ doesn’t know exactly where he and Mark stand, but she deserves an explanation of sorts. “It’s a … new development,” he manages, meeting her eyes sheepishly. He can’t keep the shy smile off his face when she beams at him, clearly thrilled. “We haven’t, like, talked about it super in-depth yet, but. W-When I visited him yesterday, he basically told me Amy knows we’re — and I don’t have to feel guilty for feeling … what I feel. For him.”

Kathryn nods in solemn understanding, but the excitement on her face doesn’t wane. “I could say ‘it’s about fucking time,’ but I don’t wanna spoil the moment,” she teases.

“What?” Ethan’s genuinely puzzled. He frowns and tilts his head at his roommate, inquisitive. “What do you mean, it’s about time? Did — Did you think this would happen at some point?”

“Ethan, come on.” Kathryn rolls her eyes and cups his flushed face gently in her hands, leveling him with an amused, exasperated look. “If you think you were good at hiding _anything_ whenever you so much as heard Mark’s voice, you really did have your head up your sweet sweet ass.”

“Hey!” Ethan swats her hands away, but he’s giggling, even if it’s full of nerves. “I thought I did a mildly adequate job! Mark had no idea, at least.”

“That’s because Mark is the only one in this scenario more oblivious than you, honey.”

“ … You might be right about that, actually.”

After another minute of lighthearted banter, Ethan hugs Kathryn goodbye and tells her to expect him home sometime tomorrow. The scandalized expression on her face forces him to clarify: _“Not_ because we’ll be doing anything — I just wanna make sure he’s — and — shut up!”

“Are you two actually fighting over there?” Mark asks as he climbs into the passenger seat. Ethan looks over his shoulder at him automatically, a moth to a flame. “Play nice, Kat, he’s my chauffeur.”

“I know, I know. Get outta here, you two.” Kathryn gives Ethan one last affectionate shoulder pat before walking over to her own car.

Ethan sighs and gives himself a good shake, hoping his blush has faded a bit. He gets in his car and buckles himself in, shooting Mark a quick smile. “Ready to be reunited with Beeka?” he asks as he starts the ignition, because he can’t think of anything else to say. This is the first time he and Mark have been alone since this change in their dynamic, and he’s not sure how to navigate it yet.

Mark seems slightly more confident. “So ready,” he replies, reaching across the center console to take Ethan’s right hand. He twines their fingers together like it’s muscle memory and closes his eyes, letting his head fall back against the headrest. “Feels like I’ve been gone for a week. You think she remembers me?”

Somehow, Ethan finds the brainpower to navigate out of the parking garage, answer the question, and hold Mark’s hand at the same time. “Of course she does. She’s been a little mopey without you around. I’ll do my best to keep her from jumping on you, but I can’t guarantee anything.”

“‘S okay. I’ll put up with a little more pain if it’s from her.” Mark’s thumb starts skimming over Ethan’s first knuckle as Ethan turns onto the main road.

It’s been awhile since Ethan’s had to drive with one hand. The last person to hold his hand in the car had been Mika, and they’ve been broken up for almost five months now. He knows he’d be able to pay more attention to his surroundings if his heart wasn’t racing and his thoughts weren’t a big glob of _Mark Mark Mark,_ but at the same time, no amount of money could get him to let go of Mark right now. Two days of anxiety and uncertainty and lovesickness are finally over, and Ethan’s got half a mind to never let Mark out of his sight again after all this.

It’s about a 40-minute drive — not horrible, but long enough that Mark starts nodding off. Ethan steals glances at red lights, taking in Mark’s relaxed face and the way the orange glow of the streetlights makes his hair look even softer. Poor guy must be exhausted. Ethan can’t wait to get him bundled up in some clean clothes and tucked snugly in bed, where he should stay for awhile. If Mark even brings up the _possibility_ of doing _any_ work in the next few days, Ethan will steal his desktop monitors.

Since Mark hates the radio on in the car, Ethan leaves it off, which leaves him with his own thoughts for most of the drive while Mark lightly dozes. He can hardly believe any of this is happening — two days ago, he and Mark were seeing each other in person for the first time in almost a month. Now, they’re driving through the night hand-in-hand with the promise of at least one eventual kiss dangling in the air somewhere above their heads. If someone had told Ethan his life would turn out like this when he’d accepted Mark’s job offer in 2016 — hell, if someone had told him about this two fucking days ago — he would’ve asked them who was paying them to fuck with his head so badly. The mere concept of talented, passionate, gorgeous Mark settling for a guy like him seems impossible to Ethan, and yet here he is. Here _they_ are, together, at the center of the spiral their lives have been traveling in since they met. Maybe since before they met. If Ethan had never clicked on that _Amnesia_ let’s-play in 2012, their paths may have never crossed. And that’s a reality Ethan refuses to think about.

A life without Mark wouldn’t be utterly bereft, but there would always be something missing. Ethan figures it would be kind of like Unus Annus without the countdown — the content would be similar, but there’d be no purpose behind it, no underlying reason for the madness. Maybe it’s a corny metaphor, but Ethan’s been awake for almost 20 hours.

He finally pulls into Mark’s driveway a little before midnight. Turning off the Tesla’s near-silent electric motor, Ethan gives Mark’s hand a squeeze and tugs on his arm gently. “Maaark,” he croons, “we’re here. You awake?”

Mark’s eyes fly open as he snaps back to consciousness with a start. “Mmmph?” He extracts his hand from Ethan’s to rub at his eyes, looking more and more like a tuckered-out toddler with every passing second. “Oh, good. Yaaay. God, ‘m tired.”

“I know. You can go to bed as soon as we get you inside.” Ethan unbuckles his own seatbelt, then Mark’s. “D’you need my help walking to the door?”

“Nah, I think I’ll make it.” Yawning deeply, Mark manages to get the passenger door open and slowly climbs out of the car. He wobbles a bit on his feet at first but rights himself before Ethan has time to fret too much.

Ethan gathers up the duffel bag and hands Mark the paper pharmacy bag before they make their way to Mark’s front door. Ethan unlocks it, since Mark hadn’t had time to locate his own keys before being whisked away by an ambulance, and leads Mark inside with a guiding hand on his back.

Well. He leads Mark mostly inside. They’re stopped in their tracks almost instantly by a barking, slobbering, wiggling golden retriever. “Chica!” Mark exclaims, greeting her with open arms and a blinding smile. He drops to his knees so she won’t jump up on him and starts scritching and petting every inch of her he can reach. “Oh, pup, it’s so good to see you! I missed you so much, yes I did! Were you good for Ethan while I was gone, huh?”

“She was very good,” Ethan assures him as he closes the door behind them. “She and Spencer got along great as housemates for a couple days, and she even left Marz alone.”

“Oh my goodness!” Mark wraps his arms around Chica’s neck and kisses the top of her head a few times. “Who’s a good pubby-wubby? I’m so sorry I left with no warning, bub, I _pwomise_ it won’t happen again!”

Ethan laughs a little too hard at Mark’s dog voice and carries the duffel bag into the living room, flicking on lights as he goes. Truthfully, as much as he’d love to collapse on Mark’s couch and relax and maybe fall asleep there, his mind and heart are still racing. What happens now? They’re alone in Mark’s house, exhausted physically and mentally, surrounded by a dense forest of _maybes_ and _what-ifs_ and _should-wes._ Besides the prolonged reunion hug and the whole hand-holding thing, Mark hasn’t given Ethan any indication that he intends to take their relationship any farther tonight. Which is fine — he did just get discharged from the hospital, after all. But Ethan doesn’t know if he’ll be able to sleep tonight without _some_ answers.

“So, I can hang around for a little bit while you get settled if you want,” Ethan calls over his shoulder, trying to sound as nonchalant as he can. He bends down to plug in the geometric lamp sculpture-thing in the corner of Mark’s living room, bathing the space in a soft yellow glow. “I-I can put away all the shit I packed in this bag, if I can remember where I found everything. Except the Tiny Box Tim plushie. I can take that home, I guess. Unless you wanted to, like, hang onto it for some reason.”

“Ethan.” Somehow, Mark’s teleported to the living room and is now standing a few feet away. Ethan whips around to face him, startled. “Are you alright?”

“Me? Yeah, I’m fine, I’m better than fine.” Ethan tries not to get drawn into the tractor beam of Mark’s chestnut-brown eyes as he rambles. “You’re back home and you’re all fixed, so why shouldn’t I be fine?”

Mark sighs softly and takes a step closer, studying Ethan’s face like it’s a Korean vocab test. “Ethan — ”

“I-I mean, maybe I’m just a little … I dunno, confused? About where the two of us, like, stand now or whatever. I guess I’m just a little unsure if we’re, like, on the same page — ”

“ — Eth — ”

“ — a-and I know it’s a totally cliché question, but like, I literally won’t be able to eat again until I know, so, what are we? Like, d-did you mean everything you said yesterday or was that the morphine talking? And are you sure you wanna … like, ‘be with’ someone like me, or — ”

“ — Jesus Christ, _Ethan.”_

The next thing Ethan knows, Mark is right in front of him. He doesn’t even get the chance to gasp before Mark’s warm, dry hands are cupping his jaw and he’s being silenced by a chaste kiss.

And.

Ethan can’t believe he thought the “kiss” through his mask in Mark’s hospital room was life-changing. With no time constraint and no fabric separating their lips, this kiss is the definition of metamorphic. Mark is _right here,_ beautiful and solid and _alive,_ and he’s _kissing Ethan._ It’s nothing more than a dry press of lips right now, a simple, subdued contact, but the rest of the world is melting away and Ethan already can’t feel anything below his knees. His eyes are wide open, staring at the blurry image of Mark’s closed ones mere inches away, and his shaking hands flail for a moment before wrapping loosely around Mark’s wrists.

Mark breaks the kiss after a several brain-liquefying seconds and exhales, resting his forehead against Ethan’s. As he drags his thumbs lightly over the skin just under Ethan’s cheekbones, he takes a half-step closer and nuzzles Ethan’s nose with his own. “I love you.”

The words drop off his tongue like the leaden weights they are. He says them like they’ve been burning a hole in his chest where he’s held them in for too long, like it _hurts_ not to say them. Like he’s never told the truth in his life before this moment.

Ethan blinks. Then blinks again. He doesn’t think he’s ever been the recipient of someone’s ultimate truth before. Doubt is fickle, though, and it creeps into his bones without his consent. “I — Really?” he says, hardly daring to breathe. “Me?”

Mark growls softly in the back of his throat. “Yes, you. You’re … everything.”

Somehow Ethan knows exactly what that means, because it’s the same way he feels about Mark. _Holy fucking shit this is happening thisisreallyhappening —_ Through the technicolor haze of disbelief and incredulity and sheer, agonizing relief, he whispers, “I love you, too.”

The sound that tears from Mark’s lips at that is a half-sob, half-laugh that reaches into Ethan’s abdomen and stirs his guts around like chopsticks in ramen. Mark opens his eyes and stares into Ethan’s with all the wonder of someone discovering a new galaxy. “Really?”

It’s earnest and vulnerable, heartbreakingly so. Mark looks like he’s half-expecting Ethan to shove him away and Ethan has never laid his eyes on anything he’d be more willing to die for. Squeezing Mark’s wrists gently, he breathes, “How could I not?”

Mark’s eyes flicker closed again. Some of the tension drains out of his broad shoulders as he lets out a shaky sigh, hands falling to the sides of Ethan’s neck. “You have no idea,” he says, “how amazing it feels to hear you say that.”

“I think I do.” Ethan releases Mark’s wrists to lay his hands on Mark’s chest. He can feel Mark’s heart pounding beneath the fabric of his sweater, nearly bursting through it, and it makes him feel better about his own haywire pulse. “Kiss me again, Mark.”

Mark doesn’t need to be asked twice. And this time, Ethan’s ready for him.

This feels more like a first kiss, innocent and searching with just a hint of darker promise. Ethan’s eyes finally close as his lips part against Mark’s, inviting him in. When their tongues brush for the first time, tentative, Ethan shivers from head to curled toe and locks his arms around Mark’s neck. Mark holds him tight around the waist, hands roaming restlessly up and down Ethan’s back as he licks into Ethan’s mouth like he’s digging the last bit of ice cream out of a Halo Top carton. He tastes like hospital jell-o, but Ethan loves it. This kiss is electrifying and vindicating and all-consuming, a dream within a dream Ethan never thought he should even try to reach, and he knows already that he will never get enough.

“Wanted this,” he breathes during their barely-there breaks for air. “For so long, _so_ long, Mark, wanted you … ”

“Me too,” Mark purrs into Ethan’s mouth. It’s just about the most erotic thing Ethan’s ever experienced. “Never thought — N-Never thought it would be you, but it’s always been. Always you.”

Ethan nods, squeezing his eyes shut tighter against a sudden surge of overwhelmed tears. This feels like the most vivid dream he’s ever had and he never, ever wants to wake up. “The day I m-met you,” he chokes out, raking his fingers through Mark’s hair, “I was yours.”

 _“God … ”_ Mark hugs Ethan tighter and kisses him deeper and for this brief, endless handful of moments, literally nothing else matters.

They kiss and kiss and kiss while the earth spins obliviously beneath their feet, and they don’t stop for a long while. It isn’t until Mark yawns loudly right in Ethan’s face that they both realize they should maybe pause for now. Ethan drinks up one last life-affirming, soul-completing kiss before breaking away with a quiet gasp, panting against Mark’s lips. Despite everything that’s just happened, Ethan’s mind is quiet and calm for the first time in … years, maybe.

There’s just one more thing he needs to know before he’ll be able to sleep tonight, though.

“So,” he wheezes, pressing himself against Mark from knees to chest like he’s longed to forever. “This — We’re boyfriends now, right?”

“Oh my god,” Mark mutters. As he boldly shoves his hands in the back pockets of Ethan’s jeans, he opens his eyes just to fix Ethan with an exasperated stare. _“Yes,_ you idiot. Thought we established that with the whole confessing-our-undying-love thing.”

“Whoa whoa whoa — ‘undying’? What are we, vampires?”

“ … What?”

“Y’know, ‘cuz of the whole undying thing! Vampires are undead, aren’t they?”

“I’m gonna kiss you again if you can’t articulate a single coherent thought.”

“You know me, bay-bee. No coherency in this big brain of mine.”

“Guess I’ve gotta kiss you again, then.”

“Aw, shit. Guess so.”

They’re both giggling during the next kiss, and Ethan can’t help but marvel at how easy this feels. He and Mark have always had great chemistry in all other aspects of their lives — it makes sense that this wouldn’t be any different. Even though this is a _huge_ step for them and Ethan still can’t fully get his head around it, it still feels like them. He’s imagined this happening for so long and now that it’s here, it both falls short of and exceeds every one of his expectations.

It doesn’t take much longer for Mark to lose the rest of his steam. He breaks the kiss after a few minutes and nuzzles Ethan’s nose again, swaying a bit. “‘M gonna take a quick shower, then head to bed,” he murmurs. His hands come to rest on Ethan’s hips; they fit there perfectly. “You’re free to stay if you want.”

“Oh, I’m staying,” Ethan says even as his stomach flips over. “Gotta make sure you’re taking care of yourself. I swear to god, if you even walk down the hall towards your office tomorrow — ”

“Hey, I’ve gotta keep myself busy somehow!”

“False. You’ve gotta _rest_ and _heal._ YouTube and Cloak and everything else will still be there when you’re all better.”

After a few more minutes of light lecturing, the two of them finally separate so Mark can shower. Ethan leaves the duffel on the living room couch and meanders to the master bedroom, stripping off his clothes until he’s in nothing but his boxers. Even though this is what he normally sleeps in, he knows it might be a little much (or not enough) for Mark. So he helps himself to Mark’s dresser and digs out an oversized Cloak tee.

When Mark emerges from the en-suite wrapped in steam and a towel, what little sanity Ethan was still clinging to flies out the window. He watches like a starving coyote as Mark walks to the dresser and picks out a pair of boxers and a shirt for himself. Ethan knew how his muscles looked all wet and shiny before now, but he’s never been allowed to really _look_ before. The only thing that keeps him from tackling Mark is the sight of the three large waterproof bandages on Mark’s stomach — one below his bellybutton, and the other two just above his (tantalizing) v-line on the left side. Some of the love-drunk euphoria drains out of Ethan when he sees them, and he gets up from where he’d been lounging on Mark’s bed to walk over to him.

“Do they hurt?” he asks softly as he approaches, biting his lip.

Mark follows Ethan’s concerned gaze. “Not really,” he replies, resting a hand over the bandages. “But I’ve got pain meds I should take before we sleep.” He stares at them for a moment, then glances back up at Ethan with a small smile. “Look at it this way — I’ve got _three_ bellybuttons now. That definitely makes me some kind of superhuman at this point.”

Ethan chuckles and wraps his arms around himself, still staring at the bandages. “Oh, for sure.”

“Hey.” Mark takes a step closer to Ethan and tilts his chin up with a light touch. Ethan meets his eyes after a few seconds of hesitation. “I’m okay. I swear. These are just little laparoscopic incisions, nothing to worry about. They’ll be all healed up in a week or two.”

“I know. I just hate having to think about ‘em.” Ethan takes Mark’s hand in his own, noticing the lingering bruise from the IV port with a pang. Before he can talk himself out of it, he brings Mark’s hand to his mouth and kisses the back of it gently. “I never want you to be hurt again,” he mumbles, feeling a little ridiculous.

Mark banishes those feelings with a firm, adoring kiss.

Once Mark is dressed and medicated and Ethan has been reassured that he doesn’t need to sleep in the living room if he doesn’t want to (“This is not the sleepover video!”), the two exhausted men curl up under Mark’s plush comforter at last. Ethan molds himself against Mark’s side and wraps an arm around him, careful not to press too hard on any tender spots. Mark feels tense, despite the prescription opioids working their way through his bloodstream. “Mark?” Ethan murmurs, curling his fingers in the fabric of the older man’s tee. “You okay?”

“Yeah, fine. ‘S just … ” Heaving a deep sigh, Mark pulls Ethan a little closer and tucks his nose into Ethan’s unruly mop of brown hair. “ … You’re, um. I-I’ve never … shared a bed with a guy before. Like this, I mean.”

Ethan knows what he means. Mark’s never mentioned being anything but straight before Ethan visited him at USC yesterday; while the kisses he’s gifted Ethan with have all been confident and decisive, Ethan can imagine he’s having a bit of an identity crisis right now. Even though Ethan’s never actually slept with a guy before either, he’s certainly kissed a few more than Mark, and he’s sure he’s been comfortable with the idea of going farther than kissing for longer than Mark’s even considered it.

As gently as he can, Ethan tilts his head up to press a reassuring kiss to Mark’s stubbled jaw. “It’s alright,” he whispers. “I know it’s a lot. And I know we’ve already done the whole ‘I love you’ thing, but we can take this as slow as you need it to be.”

Mark hums softly in understanding and kisses the top of Ethan’s head. Some of the nervous tension in his body evaporates, and he melts against Ethan a bit more. “Thank you,” he says, so quietly Ethan almost doesn’t hear him.

“Of course.” With one more kiss to the hollow of Mark’s throat, Ethan closes his eyes and lets himself relax. “We can talk about it more tomorrow if you want. Sleep now.”

“Mmm, yeah.” Mark gives Ethan a gentle squeeze and sighs into his hair again. “‘Night, Eth. Love you.”

A giddy thrill shoots up Ethan’s spine. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of hearing that. “Love you too,” he replies, hiding his smile against Mark’s collarbone.

As the two of them slowly drift to sleep, Ethan notices something profound. The weight of the homesickness he’s been carrying with him for days is mysteriously gone, vaporized like it had never existed in the first place. Here, in Mark’s king-sized bed with Mark’s arms around him, something in Ethan’s core settles within him. He’d known “home” could be a person instead of a place, but he’s never experienced vivid, undeniable proof of it. Until now.

With Mark’s heart pressed against his own, Ethan is finally home.

———— 

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, okay, maybe it got a little cliche at the end, but I couldn’t help myself haha :P hope you enjoyed!! Comments/kudos keep me aliiiiive <33333


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